Circles
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock haven't always been antagonistic toward each other. Once, they were friends. As they reexamine their past, and figure out if there's any room for their bond in their futures, they both learn important lessons about life, love, and the ties that bind. Johnlock and Mystrade, I OWN NOTHING. (M rating for later chapters)
1. Circles

**A/N: Back again! I will apologize in advance- with the way this semester's going, I'm not sure when I'll be completing this particular work, but I have enough of it done that I feel reasonably confident that I can keep to something like a normal posting schedule. So, probably something like every few days, there should be another chapter done, edited, and posted. Helpful comments are helpful, as ever, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. I'm working it a bit differently from my usual romance-central plots. This is still Johnlock and Mystrade, but there will be parts focusing on the relationship between the brothers alone. That was the plot bunny, so it's the direction it's going. There will, of course, still be plenty of sexytimes, and probably a lot of fluff, too. I hope you enjoy!**

**~Wings**

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They were bickering when the car sputtered to a stop. That was no surprise, as they had been quibbling almost from the moment they'd gotten into the car together two hours before. What was remarkable was that, while both men were geniuses, neither had bothered to check how much gas had been in the tank. For a moment, they stared at the gauge, silenced by their shock. They then turned to each other, and Sherlock had opened his mouth to unleash another barrage of insults, when Mycroft burst out laughing, a sound neither of them had heard for so long it triggered another period of silent staring, this time at one another.

"What, exactly, do you find funny about this? We're stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no cell phone service, and haven't seen a town for at least half an hour." Sherlock did not sound angry, exactly, but did seem very perplexed. He might have thought his brother had finally gone off the deep end, were it not for his own clear confusion at his reaction.

"I don't know. I was simply struck, I suppose, by the sheer absurdity of this." Mycroft paused, biting his lip as he contemplated how much of his thought processes to share with his brother. There was every chance, after all, that Sherlock would laugh at him, or simply not understand. He might even get angry. But Sherlock wasn't looking at his eyes, but at his mouth, with a frown on his face.

"That's a nervous habit you've not displayed since you were seventeen, brother." Sherlock nodded to indicate his mouth, and Mycroft hastily attempted to calm his mind, forcing himself to stop.

"Well, this is the first time we've been alone like this since those days. Perhaps it's simply your presence that upsets me."

"I suppose that could well be," Sherlock mused, laying his seat back. He stared at the roof of the car and simply waited.

"It's only… the last time we went on this trip, we liked each other. And it was an awful day, and everything that could go wrong did… but we found it all incredibly amusing, and laughed even when the tire blew and we had to walk two miles in the pouring rain to get to that seedy little bar…"

"And you got propositioned by that motorcyclist while I begged for change to use the payphone. We were lucky the bartender was nice, or we might not have gotten out of there," Sherlock finished, a small chuckle escaping him as he remembered the look of horror on his brother's face when the large, bald man dressed in leather had attempted to get him to dance. He remembered them laughing about it later, curled up on the sofa together drinking tea as they retold the tale of what had by then become a legendary adventure, to them.

"We did, though. It's one of my happiest memories, actually." It was a strange statement for Mycroft to make, considering his typical stance on emotion, but there was something… softer about him just then, Sherlock decided, a definite change from the hyper-controlled, stoic, stiff brother he was so used to these days. It was almost as if he was with the same young man he'd been all those years ago, before his work had stripped the joy from him. Sherlock wondered if it was just the repetition of the situation that had brought back that version of him or if it was something else. Regret or nostalgia, perhaps?

"Really? That was a terrible day, though. Truly." Although, now that he let himself think back on it, he realized that it was the same for him. Their childhood had been strange—though their parents were painfully normal, he and Mycroft had always been brilliant, and as a result had spent most of their time together. That had been just after he'd left uni, before he'd started work and begun rapidly rising through the ranks until he had become the most powerful man in Britain. It was the last time they'd spent much time together without fighting.

And then Mycroft had grown too busy to spend time with him, and Sherlock had become so painfully lonely without anyone like himself around that he'd turned to drugs to cure his unhappiness. And they'd fought about the drugs, and let the grudge grow until they'd not exchanged so much as a truly pleasant word in at least two decades.

"I'm not sure I would agree with that statement. It could have been terrible, and a number of terrible things certainly happened, but… We had fun, didn't we?" Mycroft didn't sound like the Mycroft Sherlock had come to know, and for a long moment, he simply considered this. He could take the opportunity to mock him, as he had on several other occasions when their conversations had taken a turn toward the sentimental, but the two of them had been having those moments more and more often lately, and this could, possibly, be a turning point.

So how to respond, then? Sherlock hesitated to say anything one way or the other, but then realized that the ball was very much in his court. Mycroft was far too intelligent to not realize what he was doing, offering that small olive branch, and that led Sherlock to wonder whether they had run out of gas on accident… or by design.

Either way, he supposed it didn't matter. They had a walk ahead of them regardless, unless they wanted to wait for Mycroft's people to notice they were missing and find them, which left them with quite a bit of time to work through it, or not, at their leisure.

"I think so. Certainly more fun than we had that time we were both home with the flu, and we discovered that the maid was a germaphobe." Sherlock wrinkled his nose as Mycroft snorted, getting out of the car with his umbrella. The door shut with a quiet but firm click, and he resigned himself to the walk as well.

Mycroft was a long time in answering, but that meant very little for the two of them. It was nothing new for either of them to think about a simple sentence for hours, even days before speaking. They played through their conversations much as they played chess. It had taken them two years to complete a game, once upon a time.

"Yes, I suppose it was. She ran screaming, and neither of us had the foggiest idea how to cook or even take care of ourselves."

"But you dragged yourself out to the kitchen and did your best to make us soup anyway. You even made me tea, even though you were shaking so hard half of it ended up on the saucer." Sherlock's words stunned both of them a little; Mycroft hadn't expected him to have remembered that, and Sherlock hadn't expected himself to actually say what he was thinking. It was something he decided to blame on the conditions of the day.

"Yes," Mycroft murmured, his umbrella tip tapping gently against the ground as the two of them started walking. It escaped neither of their notice that they walked in step, but neither chose to comment on it. And so, for perhaps half an hour of constant movement, they were quiet.

"You've carried an umbrella ever since that day," Sherlock commented finally, nodding toward the one he currently carried before glancing up at the sky. It was gray, but it had been all day, so neither of them was all that concerned.

"It seemed prudent. When we started out that morning it was a beautiful day. It only started to rain after we were on the road, by which point it was too late to think about that. And if I recall correctly, I ended up with a horrendous cold after that day, one that lasted more than a week."

"And I made you tea, without spilling any on you." Mycroft had to chuckle a bit at this, because it was true. "Then two weeks later you were gone," Sherlock finished, voice quiet and a little sad. Mycroft closed his fingers a little harder around the handle of the umbrella to keep from biting his lip again.

"It was what Father wanted, Sherlock. We both know I didn't have a choice. I didn't know how to do anything else, and we both know he'd have done anything in his power to make sure I followed in his footsteps."

"You were more successful than he ever was, though. And that was in the first five years. You could have called some of your own shots. You didn't have to live at your office and spend every conceivable moment on the phone even when you were home visiting."

Resentment was a blast of heat in Sherlock's voice, and he blinked at his own reaction. He hadn't realized it had hurt him so much. He remembered being angry but this… had he blocked out the pain because not doing so would have made him even worse off?

"Every time I could come home you were so angry, though. How did you expect me to talk to you when you wouldn't let me in? You wouldn't talk to me, you threw things at me if I tried to talk to you, and eventually you simply refused to see me. What was I supposed to do?"

"Oh, I don't know; be there for me, maybe? There was no one in the world who was like me except for you, Mycroft, and then you were gone."

Mycroft actually stopped in his tracks at this, spinning to face Sherlock, umbrella staying at his side despite the fact that a light rain had just begun to fall, landing on his already slicked hair and typically impeccable suit.

"I wasn't gone, Sherlock. I just wasn't there. There is a difference."

"What _is_ the difference, then? I needed you, My. You weren't just my brother; you were my best friend, my equal, my partner in everything. I was completely lost! You virtually disappeared, except for the appearances you were obligated to put in, and never so much as had time to ask me how my day was for years! Can you _blame me_ for not trusting it when you finally got around to me?"

"You were _always_ my first thought, Sherlock. I didn't do any of it for Father; I did it so you would never have to! I knew what you wanted, and it wasn't to do what was expected of you. I knew if I could work hard enough, I would be able to take care of you by the time you were forced to make a choice. I wanted you to actually _have_ a choice."

Whatever Sherlock might have said in response was lost when lightning slammed into a tree thirty feet away, felling it and making it hit the ground with a massive crash. Sherlock went pale and began to shake a little, and Mycroft cursed when he remembered Sherlock's fear of storms when they were little. If he had something to focus on, and was out of it, he was usually okay. But lightning terrified him, and they'd just had a close enough call to frighten anyone.

Pulling Sherlock under his arm, Mycroft got them moving, propelling them faster down the road. Fortunately, they found a village after five minutes—the same one they'd found all those years ago—and they were taking shelter in the same bar while Mycroft fished out his fortunately water-proofed cell phone and placed a quick call.

Because his little brother was still whiter than natural, Mycroft ordered a scotch and put it in his hand, murmuring to him softly until he drank it. It calmed him just enough to return some of his natural color, but he still looked a bit dazed. Guessing it wasn't because of the storm, Mycroft stayed quiet and let him work through his thoughts.

Sherlock didn't speak when Anthea came to their rescue with one of the nondescript black cars Mycroft used all the time, or on the entire ride there. He barely spoke when they arrived, finally, at the "cabin" where they were spending the week with their parents. He answered questions they asked him, but his uncharacteristic silence had both their mother and father raising their eyebrows. It was only after they retired, leaving the boys alone in the living room with the crackling fire, that he decided to resume their conversation.

"I never knew why you did it. I can read anyone, understand even the most complex minds, but I never saw that."

"Sherlock… I wanted more for you than to be stuck with a job you didn't want for the rest of your life. More than anything, I wanted you to be happy. That you succeed was important to me, but only so far as I knew you wouldn't be satisfied with anything less. I love Mother and Father, but I knew they would never understand your need to do what you do. I just thought that if I could make things easier for you… Well, it would be worth it to see you happy."

"Being your brother made me happy. I guess I always just thought, when you left, that you had… outgrown me. And I hated that. You are the only person I had ever met who is on my level, and not having you there just… hurt."

"I never meant to hurt you, brother mine. I only wanted to help you. I just did what I thought was best… but I should have asked you how you felt, I suppose."

"No, My… you needed to have something for yourself." At this the elder brother turned to look at the fire rather than at his brother, unease written on his face. Sherlock wondered if it was the closeness that produced that look or the fact that he didn't really have _anything_ that was his. Sherlock had carved out a space for himself—he had 221B as a home, Mrs. Hudson and John as family, and was busy and happy with his career. He had people to go home to at the end of the night. If his relationship with John wasn't exactly what he wanted, well, at least John was around, and didn't seem inclined to abandon him anytime soon.

"But you don't, do you?" Sherlock murmured, noting the way Mycroft's eyes closed, forehead crinkling. It was a sure sign he was thinking, possibly planning to make some excuse and run from the conversation, but now that he understood everything his older brother had sacrificed for him, he wasn't going to let that happen. Resting a hand over Mycroft's on the couch, he squeezed gently, reclaiming his attention.

"My, if you're lonely, you can change it. There's still time, you know. And you do deserve something for yourself." Sherlock had slipped back into the old nickname easily, the old habits somehow stronger than the years between them, and the rift between them began to seal, bound together by ties of blood and affection and trust that lingered despite everything.

"I don't know, Lock. I've spent so many years living for other people, how would I even know what I want?"

And because Sherlock cared enough about John to listen to him, a thought sparked in his mind of a conversation he'd had with his flat mate only a few weeks before. He'd come home from a pub night with Lestrade, sighing about how unfair things had been for the DI and how much of a shame it was that he had no one, despite how much work he put in to protect and serve others. The man had given up on relationships after divorcing his wife, but was apparently quite lonely, though he'd voiced to John more than once that even if he wanted to go on a date, he would have no idea what to say or even look for.

"Maybe what you want is someone who understands your pain, and knows it. You could use a friend, My."

And it was, perhaps, that simple. Or maybe Mycroft and Lestrade would fall in lust, or even in love, and end up making one another happy in a variety of ways. But for the moment, Sherlock realized that he and Mycroft both had a lot of healing ahead of them, and that little steps were probably the wisest approach, until he had started on his journey.

"Perhaps so, Lock. But I… I could use a brother, as well. I know we've been… not close, but I think that with time, we might be able to get past that." He made the offer and waited with bated breath, knowing that whatever response his little brother gave would determine what happened next. They might never be as close as they once were, but it was still possible.

"I think in some ways, today, we already have. But whether or not that continues, I think, remains to be seen."

Mycroft nodded, accepting the cautious but hopeful answer, and then felt the corner of his mouth twitch up as he realized that, at least for that night, he could tease his brother without it being taken badly.

"How's John, then?"

Sherlock made a face, nose scrunched up as Mycroft stood and poured them both snifters of brandy. He returned to his former position after handing Sherlock his, but turned his body a little more toward his brother.

"What, your surveillance team can't tell you how John is?"

"Well, it does save me from having to borrow him for an hour, don't you think? This way he has more time to devote to you. Maybe you'll have some leftover time after your next case to spend time together, then."

The younger Holmes went very still, and Mycroft realized he might well have pushed a button that would destroy their temporary truce, despite the gently teasing nature of his first comments. But then Sherlock shrugged, the movement graceful and feline, and Mycroft released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Or he'll go out on one of his ridiculous dates with those idiotic women he dates because he knows they won't last, and he can keep up the façade without ever having to commit to the lifestyle that's expected of him."

"Have you tried offering him an alternative, or have you been too afraid to do so?" Again, he was cautious, knowing that if he irritated Sherlock, that was probably it. There was no dare in his tone, simply curiosity, and an offer to listen.

"I don't know what John wants, My. But I can't think why, out of all the people in London, he would choose me, if he wanted something more real."

"I can't think of any reason you wouldn't be his first choice, actually," Mycroft said dryly, earning a confused look that reminded him, oddly enough, of a twelve year old Sherlock whose primary interests had been studying nature and following his big brother around. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed that Sherlock… he'd thought he had, but until that moment, it struck him just how wrong he'd been.

"Lock, John Watson is addicted to danger, adrenaline, and intrigue. Contradictorily, he's also a man of great warmth and compassion, a caretaker with a desire to nurture, heal, and protect. That makes him your perfect companion. He can follow you all around London and get the first of his fixes, and then take you home and get the second. Can you name a single person of either of your acquaintance who could offer him the same? Honestly?"

Sherlock wracked his brains, but when it occurred to him that he could not, in fact, name a person, he decided to take a different tack. Hope was beginning to well up inside him, and he knew that if he didn't push it back down soon, he might do something perfectly ridiculous like try and act on the feelings he'd never known himself capable of having until a certain army doctor had come into his life.

"It doesn't matter what I can offer him; it's what I can't offer him that makes it highly unlikely that he would ever even feel _mild_ interest, let alone…" _Let alone what I feel for him_. Sherlock couldn't say the words, but since they were implied anyway he pressed on, knowing Mycroft would understand. "I'm not a female, I know absolutely nothing about relationships outside of what makes people commit murder—and I'm fairly certain none of those things would be equally useful in forming a healthy relationship if I even proved capable of being _in_ a healthy relationship—and to top it all off, I've hurt him so many times without ever meaning to that it's a miracle he even puts up with me as a flat mate and friend."

"I think you'll find that the first two items on your list there are irrelevant. John Watson is the sort of man who falls in love with hearts, not parts, and so is unlikely to judge you for what you have between your legs or the fact that you aren't particularly adept with it. That last, I'm sure, would come along rather quickly if the two of you would finally just give in. In regards to the third, perhaps you have hurt him, but he's probably the first person outside of family whose regard you've actually, genuinely cared about for its own sake. People hurt one another, every day, but what is important isn't the pain. Life _is_ pain. What matters most is that you care, and find a way to show that you've kept on caring no matter what flies out of your brilliant mouth that spouts off the wisdom of the ages all without ever thinking before it speaks."

Sherlock was stunned for a moment. Mycroft was giving him… relationship advice? And the truly strange part was that it sounded reasonable. He contemplated going to Molly for a second opinion, then remembered that John had warned him last time that talking to Molly about interpersonal relationships was _a bit not good_ due to the fact that she wanted more of one with him than he was capable of providing. He should have scowled, seeing how much influence the doctor had on him, but instead it created a warm fluttering in his belly.

"Do you really think he could come to care for me, Mycroft?" Again, it was the sweet, naïve Sherlock they'd both thought was gone whose tone came through, and the shy uncertainty compelled Mycroft to pull him in for a sideways hug briefly, imparting a little comfort.

"I think he already does, Sherlock. Maybe more than you could guess. But neither of us is good with these sorts of things. I think that, if you want answers to the million questions undoubtedly circling in your head, that you would be best off to ask him. I cannot imagine a world in which that man would turn you away." The statement might have been one of the most sincere of his life, but it still surprised him when Sherlock relaxed against his shoulder, letting his brother cuddle him for a moment before turning to look at him with an impish grin.

"So, have you seen DI Lestrade while you've been spying on me?" Though he very nearly bristled at the implication that his surveillance was spying, Mycroft decided to take the question in the spirit in which it was offered and shrugged while Sherlock refilled their drinks, not sure what he was getting at but very nearly sure he was about to be the butt of some joke.

"Yes, I've seen the man. And I met him once before, if you recall. Though, I suppose you might not. I was the one who convinced him that you would be of far more use to him patrolling the streets at his side."

Sherlock, who had only vague, blurry memories of those days—the state he'd preferred, when his massive intellect had begun to drive him crazy and the only refuge was the blur only drugs seemed to offer—frowned as he thought back and found only a vague recollection of the events described. It was enough, however, to remember the way his brother's fingers had tightened marginally on his umbrella, the only sign of his discomfort.

"Aah, yes. And you were uncomfortable at the fact that you found him attractive and practically ran away, not noticing his half-arsed attempt to give you his phone number in case you wished to 'discuss me further' or whatever nonsense was pouring out of his mouth in an attempt to get you to stick around."

"Half-arsed, brother mine? You are definitely making that up, if you're resorting to such language." But Mycroft had colored delicately, a curse of their pale skin and his red hair, and Sherlock bit back a chuckle. Yes, he was definitely going to have to arrange a meeting for them.

"Not making it up. But if you'd like to try and prove me wrong, you should swing by my next crime scene. You can even pretend you're checking up on me, if it makes you feel better. It's not as if he could throw the British government off the scene, even if he was able to make his tongue form the correct words to do so."

Mycroft bit his lip again, hesitating, before attempting a confident nod. If he didn't quite make it, neither brother commented. In fact, they didn't comment the rest of the night, on some silent accord, and after the weekend, they headed back to the city together. When Sherlock got a call from Lestrade as he turned on his phone, he raised an eyebrow at his brother, receiving a nod in return. So while Mycroft directed his driver to take them straight to the scene, Sherlock dialed a familiar number, unconsciously cradling his phone with rare care in a gesture that was obviously aligned with his thoughts regarding the person on the other end.

"John, I'm back in town, and Lestrade's just called…"


	2. Obvious

**A/N: Pointless author's note is pointless. Anyway, awkward Johnlock is awkward until both parties realize what's going on, so be ready for the "slow bloom of affection," and cookies to anyone who gets that reference. Also, just to let you know, there'll be a bit of a trade-off between parts from here on out, going back and forth between the brothers and their situations, as well as chapters where they spend time together mixed in. I'll try to keep my pace up, but feel free to remind me if you get anxious and I haven't added a chapter quickly enough for your liking! Now, I'm done rambling... Enjoy!**

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The unfortunate thing about having followed Mycroft's advice to woo John was, of course, rather obvious. Sherlock had no idea how to flirt, and what he did know, he knew from watching murderers—clearly not the tact he wanted to take—or victims—also, very _not good_. This left him with a dilemma. He could continue treating John as his friend, as he always had, but getting more meant acting differently, and he wasn't quite sure how to approach it.

And though a crime scene was probably not the best place to be attempting to figure that out, he realized that if he didn't work with what he had, he might lose John to one of his brainless, immoral conquests who would never see the true value of the army doctor. That thought was untenable, and so he decided to begin, in his own way, and see if he might not be able to manage something that resembled flirting.

As he got out of the car, he noticed the momentary change of expression on both John and Lestrade's faces—as if they couldn't believe that Mycroft was at the crime scene, having brought Sherlock there, and neither of them were so much as bruised—and it would have amused him if he wasn't so uncertain about what to do about John. He'd spent the entire drive contemplating how to put his, admittedly tentative, plan into action, and had come up with nothing. And the worst part was that the only person he could conceivably ask about the whole mess, really, was John.

So he was going to have to fake it. Well, he'd proven good enough at that over the years, hadn't he? He was an accomplished liar and actor, and he'd solved many a case by pretending to have figured it all out and watching people trip over themselves to obfuscate the truth. No one knew that particular little secret of his trade, but it was what made him so good. Not only was he adept at seeing physical evidence, but he was also quite talented at observing people, and the ways they acted and reacted.

He was counting on this gift for reading people just as much as the ability to pretend he knew what he was doing, as he stepped just a bit too close to his loyal blogger and offered him a brisk nod, just slightly more acknowledgment than he usually gave before bending over and studying the body rather than crouching… so that his posterior was pointed toward the good doctor, in hopes that he might decide to admire Sherlock's rather plush bum. It was, he'd always been told, one of his better features, and even better, it was an attribute typically characterized as feminine, which could only be in his favor if he was going to seduce someone who had thought himself straight all his life.

And then he tuned everything out, observing the way the light caught on the faint sprinkling of something that glittered on the man's fingertips, smudged there with some sort of liquid. He looked closer, and realized that the flecks were, in fact, gold. Rising abruptly, all plans not related to the crime scene forgotten entirely for the moment, Sherlock prowled into the bar beside which the victim had been slain, searching the entire place… _there_.

He crossed the room in several swift steps, seeing what he was looking for on one of the tables toward the edge of the room, near the loo. He impatiently gestured for a crime scene tech, only to realize none had followed him inside. Sherlock very nearly cursed before John was at his elbow, having helpfully asked one of the poor newbies to follow him on the assumption that Sherlock had figured something out. He gestured triumphantly at the glass.

"The woman you're looking for will have left her prints on this glass, probably helpfully preserved by the fact that the rather intoxicated victim slopped some over the side when he brought it to their table." Sherlock went outside without another word, repeating this explanation to Lestrade and, after a little prompting, continuing the story.

"After indulging in a fast shag in the loo, he asked for her number when he realized he wasn't going to get her to come home with him for a repeat of their… exploits. He was so drunk he didn't even realize that she nicked him with the corner of the business card she handed him, releasing a toxin into his bloodstream. The reason your people didn't find it on him is that, after he stumbled outside feeling more ill than expected due to the amount of alcohol he consumed, another man came along and, offering to help him, took advantage of his inebriation and pickpocketed his wallet while supposedly trying to help him home.

"When he began to experience seizure-like symptoms, his supposed new friend ran off with his wallet, and the card, and half your evidence. Unfortunately, the chances are high that, when he attempts to clean out the wallet, he will also perish due to whatever's left of the poison. It was the victim's ex-girlfriend, returned for one night and one night only despite the fact that he'd cheated on her. She'd gotten a new number, as she'd had it changed after breaking up with him a month ago. A very simple case of revenge, complicated by the fact that he was an alcoholic and drug addict, and she, a chemist with a skill for whipping up illegal substances for sale and personal use. Her rather lucrative side business is how they could afford alcohol with gold flecks inside it, and when you arrive at their flat, be very careful when you raid the basement, as that is where she is carrying on the bulk of the operation."

Sherlock paused here, as if debating whether or not there was more he wanted to say. Then he shrugged, deciding to try his hand at being… kind. It was something he wouldn't normally have cared for, but he was willing to do virtually anything to score more of his own personal fix, praise from John. Or maybe the doctor himself was the fix, these days; it was increasingly difficult to tell, when so much of who he was revolved around the way he seemed to consider Sherlock both a hero and an ally.

"Another reason for removing him from the picture was that this man was about to blow the whistle on her operations. He wanted to get clean and turn his life around, and he did genuinely love her. He was under the mistaken impression that she would be happy to leave that world behind and stay with him if he became a better person, as he was the one who led her down that road in the first place as far as he knew, but she never had any intention of changing. I suppose it's… _sad_, really." That was the most empathy Sherlock was capable of showing for the man, but he actually did sympathize, somewhat, with his plight.

He wasn't sure, sometimes, what would have become of him had he not been given multiple good reasons to leave the drugs behind and commit himself to a better life, but he knew the courage, and strength, it took to commit to the idea of getting better. There was no way of knowing that he would have succeeded—it was actually quite likely he'd have failed—but now, he would never have the chance to prove himself weak or strong, either way.

As Sherlock had once told John, caring wasn't an advantage in their line of work because it wouldn't help him save the victims, but looking at the expression on John's face, he decided that that statement hadn't been quite true. Perhaps there was no statistical advantage regarding the solving of crimes, and perhaps his understanding did nothing for the man lying face down in a puddle of rain and myriad human waste, but if it could earn John's respect, it was certainly good for _something_.

"Brilliant. Sad, but amazing." There was the usual awe in John's voice when he complimented Sherlock's deductions, but there was also something softer written all over his face, and whatever it was made Sherlock want to ignore propriety, and logic, and lean down to kiss him. It was only the fact that the action was quite likely to send the smaller man running for the hills, never to return, that held him back, and instead he offered a tiny, shy smile, deciding to acknowledge the compliments in a way he frequently saw done rather than ignoring them as usual because he wasn't quite sure what to say.

"That really was quite… I'd never have gotten that from a paper cut on his thumb, gold flecks, and a missing wallet. Do you happen to know where that pickpocket will be, though?" Lestrade knew that he probably sounded just as callous as Sherlock usually did, but he'd gotten barely four hours of sleep the night before, when he'd been promised the weekend off after a particularly grueling case that had wrapped up only two days prior. But instead, he'd been called back out to the streets, and he very much wanted to wrap it all up in a neat, tidy package, hand it off to the crown prosecutors, and head home to crash.

Warring with that desire was the presence of Mycroft Holmes, who stood looking delicious and unapproachable all at once in his clearly bespoke suit and shined up shoes, tapping his umbrella on the ground and observing the proceedings with an almost bored expression on his aristocratic face. Trying to get a hold on his thoughts before they betrayed him to one or both of the brothers, Greg studiously ignored his presence after a first awkward statement, at least until he spoke up.

"I believe I can help with that, Detective Inspector. One moment, please." Mycroft quickly dialed a number on his phone, and while he was doing that, Sherlock walked back over to look at the body again, just in case there was anything he'd missed. John followed him.

"Do you think the poor bloke could have done it? Gotten free of it all, I mean." As usual, John's capacity for caring caused something in Sherlock's heart to lurch uncomfortably. He had grown used to it, as much as anyone could get used to extraordinary kindness in a world of such cruelty and hatred, but it still made him marvel at the puzzle that was John Watson every time he opened his mouth and something simultaneously naïve and world-weary escaped him.

"I haven't any idea, I'm sure. I didn't know him, and although I can observe the fact that he was quite drunk in response to the idea of seeing his girlfriend tonight, I cannot gauge how successful he was in his endeavors before tonight, or how well he'd have fared after. I only know that she never meant for him to survive last night and she got her wish."

John seemed startled when he glanced at his watch and realized that it was, in fact, already the next day, and he grinned at Sherlock ruefully.

"Well, fancy that. I got your call just when I was about to head to Angelo's for his vegetarian lasagna, but I hadn't even realized until now that I never managed to eat dinner. We were completely lost here before you showed up to save the day, you know. The way your mind works… it's incredible, Sherlock. Truly. You leave me awed every time. Now, though, do you reckon you could deduce our way to a restaurant that's open this time of night? I doubt you've eaten, without me to nag you all weekend, and I feel too awake to possibly go home and sleep now anyway."

"Actually, John, I rang Angelo on our way here, after hanging up with you. He said he'd be more than happy to keep the place open for us." Before John could open his mouth to object, Sherlock held his hand up. "But I asked that he simply have one of his delivery boys swing by 221B and drop off our usual, as I wasn't sure how you would feel or how long the case would take, and I knew you wouldn't want him having to stay there until some ungodly hour of the morning just to serve us food."

John blinked at Sherlock, then chuckled a little, a puzzled grin taking over his face for a moment.

"Who are you, and what've you done with Sherlock Holmes? I've never known you to be this thoughtful, in any way. You seemed almost sympathetic in regards to this poor man, and for you to consider someone else's needs above your own… Are you feeling all right?"

John didn't seem suspicious, so Sherlock decided to push his luck just the slightest bit and try for some honesty, which would likely go over his companion's head. They headed for a taxi, which Sherlock managed to flag down instantly, and he tossed his comment out as if it was a casual statement, rather than a declaration of his heart.

"Well, perhaps I've simply found a reason to employ a more human outlook on the world." And if the sentiment in his voice was just a bit obvious to anyone who was paying attention—namely Mycroft and Lestrade, who'd been watching the two men after a conversation of their own—John was oblivious, his mind already tuned toward thoughts of warm food and a warmer bed afterward.


	3. Spark

**A/N: I've been gone for longer than I intended, and I apologize. However, three exams in two days will do that to a girl. In any event, I've another chapter for you, and I'll try to be more conscious of my time tables so I don't take so long between posts. In the meantime, enjoy, and if you have a minute, please review!**

* * *

Mycroft Holmes knew of the unofficial title he'd inherited as a result of his tactics and manner, a title he'd probably also been given just so he could be addressed by _something_ other than someone who "occupies a minor position in the British Government," but he found he disagreed with it. He was not, as so many including his brother had dubbed him, an Iceman. More often than not, he simply felt hollow, and had often though that that would be a better title. But he wasn't going to correct the masses, and now that his brother seemed to know better, there was no point in attempting to correct him either if he occasionally slipped and used it.

But all of this meant, of course, that his situation was every bit as… difficult as Sherlock's with John Watson, possibly even more so. He didn't know how one went about making friends, let alone engage someone in a relationship of the traditional sense, so the idea of trying to engender a sense of camaraderie with Lestrade was a little bit unsettling to him.

However, when Sherlock stepped out of his car and immediately got to work, he was left to his own devices, and after watching the consulting detective whirl into the bar, the cop shook his head and headed over to talk to him, hands shoved in his pockets in defense against the coldness of the late hour.

"Ello there, Mycroft. Developed a special interest in my crime scene?" He tried teasing the younger man gently, but when he received only a blank, slightly confused stare, he gave up and returned his attention to the body while they waited for Sherlock to return.

Mycroft, for his part, was just a little bit stunned. He'd never had anyone speak to him with such familiarity, outside of family, and he wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not that the silver-haired man had attempted it. He supposed it could be considered a good sign—he clearly saw them as allies of a sort, at least—but he'd just bolloxed it up by his lack of response. It was hardly a wonder that the other man was now almost studiously ignoring him. He was trying to be casual about it, but Mycroft couldn't help thinking that the other man must think him some sort of idiot by now, or at least socially handicapped.

He supposed that was why he felt the impulse to show off after Sherlock had, though he probably should have just let his brother take care of the whole situation. Using his resources to do something as simple as this was probably some sort of violation, but since the rulebook could be rewritten at his leisure, he decided to ignore his own good sense for once, and after a quick phone call with Anthea, he was able to give Lestrade a location—two blocks west and one block north of their current location, slumped against the wall of a remarkably similar alleyway with the wallet tucked down in the front pocket of his hoodie. As he was already dead, there was no need for haste.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade murmured, his voice low as he raked a hand through his silver hair. Mycroft had to swallow against the urge to do the same, and even then, he couldn't help wondering what those strands would feel like against his skin… all over.

"I know that I should care more what happened to the poor sod who decided mugging a dying man was a good idea, but I can't be arsed to care, tonight. My pillow's going to forget what I look like." This second attempt at humor was some sort of peace offering, judging by the expression on Greg's face, and Mycroft was determined to summon up a better reaction to this one.

"Perhaps you would allow me to escort you home then, Detective Inspector? Your Sergeant Donovan is capable of handling this herself, and she has actually slept this weekend. Judging by the circles beneath your eyes, you can't have snatched more than a handful of hours, which cannot be good for your health. London needs her finest in top condition; I'm sure that your superiors will understand that." Implied was the idea that Mycroft would _make_ them understand, and if the casual display of power daunted the cop, he didn't show it. Instead, what flashed on his face was a relieved grin, gratitude, and a faintly amused smile.

"That'd be really nice actually, but are you sure? My flat isn't all that far away." And if Mycroft didn't have the time, he'd be walking in the cold and wet the entire way there, as there wasn't a cab in sight, and he wouldn't have the pleasant company of a gorgeous man and his stimulating conversations, either.

"I can assure you that if I have made the offer, it is perfectly fine. In any event, I was on my way home, and a small detour is of no consequence to me." There was really nothing to say to this but thank you, but he was distracted from saying this when John and Sherlock walked by, closer together than two colleagues normally walked, and Sherlock tossed out a comment that caught them both by surprise.

"Well, well, well," Greg said, "that's quite the turn-up. Is that Sherlock attempting to flirt?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and the corners of his lips also twitched upward, expressing more than most people did with a full-blown laugh.

"I think that can be safely assumed; however, as the world has never seen such a thing before in any sort of genuine context, I could not confirm that with any degree of certainty." _Except that I know that's his end game, if he's brave enough_. He wasn't about to start spilling his brother's secrets to Lestrade, even if the man was extremely attractive, and even if he had proven to truly care about Sherlock. And if he hoped that he might someday earn the same level of affection, perhaps even more… well, that was his own secret to keep, at least for a while.

"They're good together. They round out each other's rough edges, don't they, and they really understand each other. That's more than most people can say, even in a relationship. If anyone could really make Sherlock happy, I think it's John. And the same is true vice versa."

Mycroft frowned at this; he understood that John was likely one of the best things to ever happen to his little brother, but he wasn't sure where Lestrade was coming from in regards to the doctor. Was he unhappy?

"Do you think so?" For everything he'd said to Sherlock about how well suited he was for the army doctor, he'd never imagined that John wouldn't be completely content with his life. He seemed like such an uncomplicated man… but then, appearances were often deceiving, he supposed.

"Yes, I think so. John… He thinks he's happy, the way he goes on, but he never shines as bright as when he's with Sherlock."

Mycroft wasn't sure exactly what to say to this, as he would definitely need to do more research to find out exactly how true Lestrade's statement was, so after a few moments of silence, he gestured to the black car which had been waiting patiently at the curb since Mycroft and Sherlock's arrival.

"Shall we then, Detective Inspector?"

"It's Greg. I feel like you can call me Greg, considering that we're sort of allies in dealing with Sherlock. And since you're taking me home, we're definitely on a first-name basis." Greg's ridiculous flirting made Mycroft chuckle gently, surprising himself.

"Very well, then… Gregory." Anyone else saying his full name reminded him of his great aunt, but when Mycroft said it, it was… _sexy_. Still, he wondered what it would take to get him to lose that layer of cool, polished sophistication.

"Yeah, let's go. I've been here for hours. It'll be nice to go home and get myself something to eat."

Mycroft didn't respond to this as they got in the back of the car, but when he used the intercom to speak to the driver, he didn't give the man Greg's address. Instead, he gave him the name of a local restaurant, a place which was used to catering to him at all hours of the day and night, depending on the timetable of whatever diplomats _he_ was catering to at the time. It was a nice place, despite being open 24/7, and he thought it would be a nice place for friends to go. He hoped, anyway.

He wanted to extend his time with Lestrade, wanted to figure out what made him tick, find out if it was possible for someone with a normal mind to be as lonely as he was. And most of all, he wanted to see if the other man might possibly want to spend time with him, not as a chance to curry favor or earn benefits, but just for the benefit of his company. It wasn't something he'd ever had before.

"That is, if that is acceptable to you. I could simply take you back to your flat, but I feel that it is the least I can do, considering this case would have been solved much more quickly had Sherlock been in London. As it was partially my fault that he was called away, I would like to make it up to you."

Greg looked at him curiously for a minute before smiling, nodding, and settling back against the luxurious leather seats, sighing.

"This is a nice car. Do you get to travel like this all the time?" He seemed completely unbothered by the way Mycroft had essentially taken over and commandeered his night, and that, for some reason, made the politician extremely happy. It was his nature to control, to shape the world around him to suit exactly what he wanted, and though Gregory was a pleasant surprise, and the spark of friendship was something unexpected, he realized that it might be easier to blend those two things than he'd imagined. Or maybe there was just something special about the cop.

"Yes, I do." For the rest of the drive, they made polite small talk, and Mycroft began to relax a little, sensing that he had finally managed, somehow, to find a kindred spirit.


	4. Consideration

**A/N: Poor Sherlock! His inability to know when someone's into him is every bit as bad as my own... Fortunately, I love these two, so I won't torture them for very long. And I'm in a generous mood, with the upcoming holiday for people in love. More angst tonight, but things'll start changing soon!**

* * *

"This has got to be the most delicious lasagna on earth." While John rhapsodized, loudly, about Angelo's cooking, Sherlock was doing something rather similar about John in his head. He was taking everything in, from the way John's throat jumped a little when he swallowed to the way he held his fork, and cataloging it all in the massive room in his mind palace dedicated to the doctor.

"Aren't you going to eat anything, Sherlock?" As if he'd only now tuned in to the fact that Sherlock hadn't touched his much smaller portion of food, John looked at him, concerned. It wasn't strange for him to refuse food, but that was usually when he was on a case—he always complained that it slowed him down—or spending his time in a manner he considered pointless, such as any time he was forced to socialize or spend time with his family. Considering both of those things had just wrapped up that night, he should have been at least somewhat hungry. Instead, he was practically looking right through John, and it was a little worrisome.

"Sherlock?" John waved a hand in front of his face, and he wasn't sure who was more startled—Sherlock, who jumped when there was suddenly a hand waving at him from a very short distance, or himself, when Sherlock jumped and blinked at him with those wide, indescribably beautiful eyes.

"Yes, John?" For a man who was usually impatient and borderline rude even at the best of times, Sherlock's behavior the entire night had been rather strange, and John was concerned. It was really, really nice, to feel like Sherlock valued his presence and actually considered him worth being kind to, but the whole thing was starting to get strange. He'd been almost sympathetic at the crime scene, and there had been moments when he'd seemed nearly… shy. It wasn't like him at all, and Sherlock was rarely unpredictable.

"Did you do an experiment on my shirts or something, that you're being so odd?" Something flashed in those eyes, something John almost recognized, before it was gone and the mask was back. He didn't have time to wince in regret before Sherlock was pushing away from the table and looking at John with eyes completely frozen over.

"Of course not. Don't be absurd. I have merely had a long weekend. I'm going to retire now." John barely had time to blink before he was shutting the door to his room, a little more loudly than was probably polite, and relaxing backward onto his bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if he'd already managed to cock everything up. It honestly didn't surprise him. His efforts had been subtle, and if he'd been a normal person, or John had been, they'd have gone completely unnoticed. But of course, neither of them was ordinary. He was himself, six feet of abrasiveness, sarcasm, and walls to keep everyone out, and John was… John. Extraordinary without ever realizing it.

Groaning a little, he draped an arm over his eyes and wished, for a small moment, that the ground would open and swallow him up. It was a fanciful notion, and not something he would ever waste his time thinking ordinarily, but John made him feel like a teenage girl with her first crush half the time. He'd dealt with it in the past by simply ignoring it, making it very clear that he considered himself married to his work and was uninterested in any sort of entanglement, and being as rude as possible when he felt like he was about to slip so John would be too angry to notice if Sherlock stood a little too close or tried to do nice things.

Everything had been so much simpler when he'd been numb. But John had brought him back to life, and even that had been manageable, until Mycroft had butted in and decided that he should try and go after what he wanted. As if that was even an option.

"I hate this," he grunted to the universe, as though the universe actually cared about his relatively insignificant problems. There was no answer, of course, which just proved that he was absolutely on his own where these matters were concerned.

Well, then, he'd just have to be creative. And if there was something he was good at, it was playing with people's minds and getting to their hearts. He would _make_ John Watson love him, and since the subtle methods other people employed apparently just made him seem strange, he was going to have to come up with a better way.

This, of course, bore further consideration. How should he go about it? Straightforward, or should he attempt to be subtle about it? He could simply jump him after one of their cases, and trust that adrenaline and the fact that John had had something of a dry period would smooth the way, but he felt like that might backfire the next morning, when John was lying in bed with him thinking about how he'd just fallen into bed with someone he'd once accused of being a machine.

There was always making John be the first to confess feelings. He could use some sort of aphrodisiac on him, make him so horny that he needed release and ensure he was the only option… but then John would only be sleeping with him out of need, and then, if he managed to make it a regular thing, out of guilt. And Sherlock, no matter how good the idea of being with John sounded, wanted much more than that from the doctor.

But how could he convince him to embrace, or even _accept_, a more permanent arrangement? Sherlock knew how to quickly woo targets to manipulate them into doing what he wanted, but he rarely carried out projects that lasted longer than a few weeks, and he'd certainly never had to factor his own emotions into it.

Contrary to what most people assumed, he did have emotions, and they were actually quite powerful. Sherlock had learned from a young age that it was dangerous to care, because no matter how brilliant he was, caring meant that he was easy to manipulate, to someone who knew which buttons to push. And it had happened, more than once, that someone had used him and played with his heart.

The first time he'd ever truly been in love, the man in question had been sweet and affectionate toward him, inviting him to live with him, spending as much time with him as possible… until the semester had ended, and he'd passed the difficult class Sherlock had been helping him in. Then, he hadn't wanted anything to do with him, and the genius had learned that his intelligence couldn't save him from heartbreak.

He'd decided to hide his heart away after that, and had done a good job of it until John had walked into his life. For the second time, he'd been compromised, and the cost of that second time was far greater. Fortunately, everyone had survived, and he'd been able to return, but it terrified him to know that John was a weakness.

And it frightened him even more to know that his existence put John in danger, too. He would always have to be watching for that, if by some miracle he did discover a way to make John return his affections. The whole situation was absolutely impossible, and for once, the promise of a challenging puzzle didn't excite him.

It just made him feel miserable and alone.

* * *

John, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a frown on his face, wasn't faring much better. Sherlock's behavior had him a little worried, if he was going to be honest, but what bothered him more was just how receptive he'd been to it, and how sad it made him to see that disappear.

Sherlock cared about him, he knew. If he didn't, he'd hardly have kept him around for so long, or been willing to give up so much to ensure his safety. Sherlock might seem like a machine to the rest of the world, but almost ever since they'd met, he'd been John's best friend and brother in arms, someone he was more than willing to kill or die for. And he knew, from the way Sherlock had saved his life, that the other man felt the same way, at least as far as that.

But for a while, John had wanted more, and that night, it had almost felt like he was getting a taste of that, only to have it yanked away due to a poorly chosen joke. It didn't seem fair, but if he was perfectly honest with himself, it was probably his fault. Sherlock had been trying to be friendly, maybe trying to be a better friend, and he'd managed to ruin it by acting like a complete tit. And trying to figure out how to apologize would likely make the whole situation awkward. With his luck, Sherlock would probably retreat completely back into his shell. It was highly unlikely he'd try such tactics again, no matter that, now that he was prepared, he would handle it better.

Still, he couldn't help thinking that maybe it was for the best. So far, it didn't seem like Sherlock knew that John was harboring feelings for him, and that was good. It might earn him ridicule or disdain, at best, or lose him the other man's friendship, which was the absolute worst case scenario, so most he could hope for was probably that the whole incident would be swept under the rug and forgotten about.

Except John didn't want to forget. He'd seen the vulnerability in Sherlock's eyes, that flash of pain before he'd hidden himself away again, and he knew that if he left things the way they were, it would hurt his flat mate. That was something he could never forgive himself for. So he had to figure out a way to make things okay again, no matter how strange their situation was.

He considered calling Mycroft, who would likely be more than happy to help him out considering how frequently he threatened those who seemed a danger to Sherlock's happiness. But it seemed wrong, going to Sherlock's brother to solve the problem when he was sure that he was capable of fixing it himself… somehow.

John was good at relationships, always had been. He found it easy to charm others, just by being himself, and he prided himself on having reasonably good instincts where others were concerned. He just had to give the problem his full consideration, and he'd come up with some sort of solution.

Sherlock was trying to be kind. It wasn't something he was used to, or something he considered himself particularly good at genuinely doing, so he would have been reaching out of his comfort zone. John would just need to behave in such a way that it would express to the genius that the effort was appreciated, and that might soothe him enough that he would feel comfortable trying again. John could also, potentially, try spending more time with him doing something other than cases, so that he might feel comfortable experimenting with his behavior.

Normally, John objected to being one of the genius's experiments, but in this case, he was more than willing to make an exception. The last thing he wanted to do was lose the other man to a miscommunication, and if there was any chance at all that getting closer might mean getting closer… Well, John wouldn't let himself think about that quite yet, not seriously, but it certainly didn't hurt to dream.

Satisfied with his plan, such as it was, John nodded firmly to himself, finished his tea, and took himself off to bed, knowing that the best thing he could do at the moment was get himself a good night's sleep so that in the morning, he could start putting his plan into motion.


	5. Flirting

**A/N: So while John and Sherlock are dancing around each other, I figured we should at least have some budding romance for Valentine's weekend, so let's see if Mycroft and Greg can get it together a little better, hmm? Should be enjoyable for everyone...**

**On a completely unrelated note, thanks to anyone who wished me luck on my exams- I did very well, and I'm giving the credit to your kind words. **

* * *

When Greg woke up the next morning, it was with the very edge of a hangover, and he was grateful that Mycroft had cut him off after two rather expensive pints with a gentle but firm smile and a few words with the waiter. The case he'd been on before the one with the drug-dealing murderess from the night before had been grueling, and left him with more than one image he just wanted to forget.

Mycroft's company had been strangely pleasant, and it occurred to him that a part of him wished, now that his head was a little clearer, that he'd invited the slightly younger man up. He was attractive, and he was smart, and from what he'd learned last night, he even had something of a sense of humor. It was buried under layers of sophistication, reserve, and power, of course, but that didn't really bother Greg.

Despite the fact that he was a DI, Greg had never minded partners who wanted to hold the reins. He best enjoyed relationships where there was a give and take, but unlike some of the others he'd worked with, who had a desperate need for control in all things, Greg enjoyed being taken care of just as much as he enjoyed being the one to do the caring. It was a side of him his ex-wife had never understood, which was one of the many reasons they were happily divorced.

The politician, on the other hand, seemed to have picked up on that easily. Although Greg wasn't entirely certain even now that they were actually flirting—and it was rather difficult to figure out, considering it was the British Government he was trying to deduce—Mycroft had been a perfect gentleman during the entire meal and ride back to Greg's flat, being courteous without making him feel small. It had simply been nice to spend time with him.

Just as he was contemplating the next time he might manage to run into the other man, his phone rang. Automatically assuming it was Donovan or one of his other people, Greg sighed and answered it.

"Lestrade."

"Gregory, I rather thought you would have turned your phone off. I apologize for waking you." Mycroft's honey-smooth voice gave him a bit of a shiver, and Greg leaned up on one elbow, suddenly much more interested in being awake.

"I've actually been up for a little while, trying to summon up enough interest in moving to get out of bed. I'm used to getting very little sleep, and my body doesn't need much to charge up, though I suppose it does need a little more than it used to." Greg nearly cursed himself for babbling before he heard Mycroft chuckling, apparently amused by his sleepy little rant.

"I understand that sentiment perfectly, I can assure you. When there are never enough hours in the day, it only makes sense to adjust one's needs to accommodate." Translating Mycroft-ese on a few hours of sleep wasn't as difficult as it would have been if Greg hadn't been used to Sherlock's strange mannerisms, so he found himself smiling as well. He was almost certain that the politician slept much less than he did, yet he never seemed to look like it.

"So what was it you were planning to talk with my answering machine about, then?" Greg stretched and yawned, sitting up, but kept the phone at his ear, despite the long silence that followed his question as if Mycroft was carefully considering his answer.

"Well," Mycroft said slowly, "I took the liberty arranging you a couple of days off, as you clearly needed a break, and as the Prime Minister requested that I attend the opera tonight, and bring a guest, I thought I might invite you. Sherlock may have mentioned that you enjoy music, and though it is not your typical venue of choice, I thought you might appreciate the experience, if only for the novelty of it."

Greg could tell he'd just given a rehearsed speech, and found himself smiling as he padded on bare feet to the bathroom. The floor tiles were cold, and Greg found himself contemplating, once again, the idea of taking some cash out of his account and investing in those heated tiles he'd heard about. Then again, it was the sort of luxury he'd grow used to, and he didn't want to grow spoiled.

"And do you like the opera, Mycroft?"

"Honestly? It is not one of my favorite activities." There was a grimace in his voice, somehow, and Greg found himself laughing as he put a towel on the towel warmer.

"No? I thought it was a requirement for suave, rich, mysterious, powerful men who work for the government with job titles they aren't at liberty to discuss. Guess I was mistaken."

Mycroft actually snorted at this, if the noise that came over the line was anything to go by, and Greg found himself grinning stupidly even though there was no way the other man could see him.

"No, I have different musical tastes. Although I do speak Italian, and can translate for you, I find that the productions are frequently… extravagant, and overdone. I prefer my art to be a bit more subtle, without the pageantry and drama."

"I guess you're not a fellow Rolling Stones fan, then?" Greg nearly snickered at the image of Mycroft at a rock concert, in the middle of a mosh pit. The image didn't fit at all, which made it truly priceless. But Mycroft in leather and ripped up jeans… That was certainly an image worth saving.

"Aah, no." Mycroft sounded startled, and Greg wondered if he was blushing on the other end of the line. He certainly had the complexion for it, and it would be more than a little endearing to see the man who was normally so buttoned-up and proper looking like a shy little kid.

"Shame, that. I bet my old leather jacket would be a perfect fit for you," Greg mused, wondering if there was a way he could possibly manage to talk the younger man into modeling for him. It didn't occur to him that he'd actually spoken out loud until, after a startled little noise, Mycroft spoke again.

"Gregory, are you… flirting with me?" Because he honestly wasn't sure, and was incredibly hopeful that that was in fact the case, Mycroft found that he was holding his breath as he waited for the answer. He nearly scolded himself for the behavior and then reminded himself that he didn't have to be like that, anymore. He _needed_ someone with whom he had some small degree of intimacy, and even friendship with this man would be incredible. Something more would be a dream he'd never imagined could be reality… if he didn't cock-block himself with his usual restrained behavior.

"I do believe I am. So when should I be ready for the opera, and is my suit acceptable, or will I need to go out and acquire something?" Since the divorce, he'd actually managed to put a nice amount of money back—no kids meant no child support, and since he'd had enough proof of his wife's indiscretions to ensure that she wouldn't ask for alimony, his money went solely to supporting himself. He was a simple man, who lived simply, and as a result he could probably go out and get a suit that Mycroft considered appropriate. What was the money there for, after all, but to use? Suddenly, he realized, he wasn't such a simple man after all. Mycroft was a complicated desire, but one he realized he was willing to indulge in anyway. It was certainly something to think about.

"That is unnecessary. If I was concerned that you would not be well turned out, I would have arranged an appointment for you with my tailor. As it stands, I believe that your suit should be fine." Neither felt it necessary to have a discussion about why Mycroft would know what Greg's suit looked like, as Mycroft wasn't in the habit of having conversations he deemed unnecessary and Greg had already decided that some things were just plain better left unknown, so the cop decided to ring off and take advantage of the next few hours to transform himself into the sort of date Mycroft could be proud to take to the opera.

"Right, then. Am I to meet you somewhere, or will one of those long black cars be along to pick me up?"

"I'll send a car for six, which should give you plenty of time to prepare, and allow us to take a meal together before arriving at the opera house." Mycroft sounded a touch too stuffy again, which Greg intuited was a signal that he wasn't sure how to proceed exactly, and he wondered, for a moment, why it was so hard for Mycroft to accept that Greg found it easy to accept his idiosyncrasies. Probably, he thought sadly, a lifetime of being misunderstood when he was only trying to be himself. Well, that wasn't going to be the case again.

"You know, the perk to those cars is that neither of us need to pay attention to the road, and our hands are all free. Just something to think about. I'll see you soon, Mycroft." He rang off before the politician had time to get startled or embarrassed again, ensuring that his flirtatious words were the last things spoken to give the conversation a purely positive ending, one that the other man could focus on rather than his insecurities.

Jumping in the shower, Greg ran it hot, the way he liked it, and let himself think about the playful banter they'd shared, and what it might mean. He couldn't deny that he liked the idea of that pale body splayed out for him on dark, silky sheets, but he also really wanted to get to know him. Beneath the bluster, there was something sweet about Mycroft, a generous side he guessed was rarely seen or acknowledged, and he found that he wanted the chance to bring it to the surface, to get to know the man both between the sheets and on the streets.

And though it wasn't the easiest place to do either of those things, Greg was quite looking forward to the opera. There was a lot to learn from the way someone reacted to stimuli, and if he was correct, they would have enough of a rapport already to silently convey their feelings to one another. Young though their fledgling bonds were, Greg had quite missed that sort of easy closeness with another human being, and was pleased by the prospect of getting the chance to have that again. _With Mycroft_.

* * *

Mycroft stared at his phone even after the call was clearly over, trying to make sense of what had happened. He'd been attempting to be casual, but remarkably, the DI had called him out on it and gotten to the heart of the invitation easily. Even more remarkably, he'd seemed intrigued by the possibility, and had even blatantly flirted with him. He knew, by the closing statement, that there was absolutely no doubt that was what had been happening.

"Don't panic, Sir. You can do this." Anthea's voice startled him from his thoughts and he looked up sharply, meeting her gaze without bothering to put up his usual shields. His assistant was used to him, and he was comfortable enough with her to let his guard down a little. Intelligent enough to know what was going through his head, she just smiled and rested a companionable hand on his shoulder, smiling at him a little. Even though she frequently spent hours staring at her phone without a break, her eyes were clear and focused on his, and at her prompting, he slowed his breathing and got control of himself before he had a panic attack.

"There you are. I already set the two of you up a reservation, so all you have to do is turn your mind back to work. I have an appropriate suit already on the way over here, so you can change and go pick your cop up yourself. Trust me, I have it all under control. Now, the Americans are wreaking havoc again, and the PM needs you to…"

As Mycroft lost himself in the familiar hum of work, he slowly found himself beginning to just look forward to the date, rather than fearing it. And then he was too busy, for several hours, to do more than occasionally glance at the file on his desk, which had the DI's picture peeking out just enough that he could see his face.


	6. Preparation

**A/N: So remember when John accidentally hurt Sherlock's feelings, and wanted to fix things but wasn't sure how? Well, John had an idea! And that lovely little idea means things are going to start picking up for these two, so I hope you're ready for a little taste of Johnlock. **

* * *

John knew that the methods for soothing ruffled feathers of the two genders were rather different. Women, in his experience, liked words, chocolates, and flowers, though the latter two only really applied if the woman was a close friend or sister, or a romantic partner. He couldn't consider Sherlock in that category, no matter how much he wanted to, so he turned over in his head how he'd resolve this sort of thing with one of his mates.

This was a problem, because he usually shrugged off disagreements or issues with blokes like Lestrade and Bill Murray by going for a pint and watching football. There was rarely a discussion, or even a mention of the incident, and if anything _was_ said, it was usually simply a casual reference that was ignored, agreed with, or joked about. And then the problem was simply gone.

He honestly couldn't see Sherlock at a pub, and the idea of convincing him to sit down and watch any sort of sport for more than two minutes was absolutely laughable. It was possible that he might attempt to employ some sort of combination of the two methods, but if he wasn't careful, he might well alarm Sherlock, or alienate him. And then there was the matter of handling it all without slipping and revealing his feelings…

Deciding that these were not decisions that he could make without a proper cuppa, John headed to the kitchen and fixed two by habit while he turned the ideas over in his head. Eventually, he had something of a plan, and just in time, too. Sherlock came out of his room, but instead of heading for the couch as John half expected, he started immediately for the door.

"Going out today, Sherlock?" He was pretty sure the only answer he was going to get was some sort of noncommittal grunt, but the tall man surprised him by pausing and turning to look at him, those curious eyes narrowing ever so slightly as they studied him.

"I thought that I might go to the morgue. Molly mentioned that she might have a new corpse for me to examine this week. I've no case on, so today seemed like a good time." His hand moved for his scarf, then paused again, hanging in midair. "Unless I'm needed for something else? Did Lestrade call?" It occurred to him that he had no idea if the DI had called, since he hadn't bothered taking his phone with him the night before or charging it, so if he'd been desperate to get in touch with Sherlock he'd have called John instead.

"No, nothing like that. In fact, I'm pretty sure your brother was arranging a little time off for Greg, considering the state he was in last night. I was just thinking that we should probably go thank Angelo for the food, once again, and then I was considering going to the new jazz club that opened a few streets over. You'd be welcome to come with, if you want. Add it to your mental map of London, and point out all the likely felons." Enticing Sherlock with music was probably a cheap shot, but it was the only decent blend of ideas he'd been able to come up with that didn't sound pathetically like "date me please!" so it was going to have to do.

"Oh." Sherlock frowned, but his hand did fall to his side again, those long, elegant fingers cool and pale against the black of his trouser leg. John had to force himself not to follow the action with his eyes. "I suppose you might be right. Though I wonder why you wouldn't want to invite Sarah or someone else to the club with you. One of your dates would probably be better company. You know that I am… awkward, when it comes to public situations."

"Nonsense, Sherlock. Besides, you need to get out for something other than a case. You've been brooding way too much lately, and if I can't spend a nice night out with my best mate, it's a sad state of affairs." John had been treading carefully, but Sherlock's comments about his string of girlfriends, combined with his own somewhat disparaging comment about himself, had prompted a slightly more assertive approach. He must have shocked the younger man, because those remarkable eyes went wide for a moment, possibly even more vulnerable than they had been the night before.

"Yes, well, I… Yes. I shall be back in a timely manner, then." Sherlock was in such a hurry to get out of 221B and away from John so that he could evaluate the turn of events and figure out his own feelings that he forgot his scarf for the first time in a very long time, and John smiled at the strip of dark blue fabric still hanging on the rack, amused, for several moments after the detective had gone. He didn't even grimace when his next sip of tea was lukewarm.

* * *

Sherlock barely noticed Molly's comings and goings, let alone the coffee she kept bringing him every half hour despite the row of mugs already assembled, his mind already too busy working the two different veins which most concerned him. He wasn't even aware she'd been speaking to him until she snapped her fingers in front of her face, which only served to irritate him.

"What _is_ it, woman? Can you not see that I'm busy?" Molly blushed at this, and Sherlock felt bad, for a moment. But then she took a step closer in a way that was just a little too calculated for his tastes, and he realized that he was going to have to fend off another unwanted advance. For the third time in as many encounters with her. It was almost not worth the chance to experiment. He was only here in the first place because he really needed to think about John _away_ from John.

"I was just thinking that you seemed… preoccupied. Anything I can help you with?" There was a look of earnest hope in her eyes that only seemed pathetic to him—he might have felt bad at first, but seriously, could this girl not take a _hint?_—and he decided that the only way to deal with this once and for all was to utterly crush her dreams. He'd tried kindness, and that had failed, and ignoring her obviously hadn't worked either. Desperate times called for desperate measures, then.

"Unless you know anything about how to actually successfully seduce a man, which I doubt, then no." He kept his voice flat, and turned his attention back to the corpse so that he wouldn't have to watch her flinch and sink in on herself. But she didn't seem that easily dissuaded.

"Is that for a case, then?" She asked the question tentatively, as though she was trying to offer him a chance to retract his statement. He had no plans of doing so. If she did manage to put together who he was talking about, there was no way she would bring it up; by the time he was done here, she would be far too embarrassed to mention it to anyone, save perhaps her cat.

"Hardly. I'm not working a case, currently, and if I was, I'd ask someone whose attempts were successful." He could practically hear the tears in her eyes, then, and sighed. He really didn't enjoy being mean to her, but he didn't understand why she couldn't simply accept things as they were and leave him alone. She really should have been smarter than to stand among the masses who claimed to love him without actually knowing who he really was. Only John, and occasionally Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft, got to see who he was when he wasn't putting on a show.

"Surely you've known that I would not reciprocate your interest, Molly? If I identify as anything, it's certainly not straight." He tried softening his tone a little, but could see that she was still upset, so decided to give up for the moment. Hopefully by the next time he was required to come here for a case with John, she would have composed herself sufficiently and accepted reality.

"I believe I've gotten all the data I require from this corpse. I'll be going, then." Sherlock turned to leave, but before he could get out, Molly's small but surprisingly strong hand caught his arm. He contemplated simply pulling away, as she wasn't likely to want to injure him and he was physically stronger than she anyway, but he knew that waiting, and letting her say whatever it was she needed to say, was likely to lead to less embarrassment for everyone when he had to return.

"Sherlock, I… I didn't know. I'm sorry. I hope that, whoever he is, he makes you very happy." Molly paused here, lower lip quivering before she got a hold of herself. Whatever Sherlock thought, she was capable of accepting rejection without breaking down. She'd always thought there was hope, as long as he never really declared himself one way or the other, but she'd guessed for a long time that the person who was going to bring him out of himself wasn't likely to be her. Now, at least, she knew why. It didn't mean it didn't hurt, but it did mean she could be kind to him even now.

"Regarding seducing a man, I have had some success, just not with men who are attracted to other men. That's not really my fault. Basically, men like honesty, and clear loyalty, and kindness, as a general rule. If it's the right sort of man, these things are going to go a long way toward earning you a spot in his life. The most important thing isn't the way you dress or do your hair, or any of that stuff the crap magazines advertise.

"The key is to make them interested in who you _really_ are, by being straightforward. That may sound weird, considering you find mysteries the most interesting, but a person won't stay a puzzle forever. It's more like… you want a piece of artwork laid out in front of you that's so beautiful you can't stop looking. Every time you look, you should find something new and unexpected, despite the fact that you've already looked a thousand times and thought you knew it all. That's how you know you're in love. They never cease to amaze and fascinate, no matter how often you've picked them apart. If that's the way you feel… that's how you want to make him feel."

Molly sucked in another breath, knowing that the next part was going to be hard on her no matter what. Because she already knew who Sherlock was attracted to, if she thought about it, and she knew that he _did_ feel that way. It was hard to let go of a dream, and later, she knew she'd likely cry about the death of it. But this felt _right_, and they did make each other happy. She could only hope that someday, she would meet someone who fit so perfectly with her.

"John's going to provide an extra challenge for you, but you have to make clear your interest without pushing him. If he notices that you're acting differently, it's probably good. You need to make him think of you as more than just a friend, and the easiest way to do that is probably to make it so he can't _stop_ thinking of you. I don't advise you do anything crazy, but I also don't think that subtle is going to work. So somewhere in the middle, then. Take him out, not because it's on the way to a case or because he needs fuel to be in top shape to help you run around London. Simple things to let him know you see him."

Sherlock was stunned, especially when the mortician offered him a smile, one that managed to be both sunny and watery, somehow. Then she waved him out of the morgue.

"I… thank you." Not sure what else to say, he did as she said and left, heading back to the flat to change. He needed time for preparation, before their not-date.


	7. Glance

**A/N: I think we can all agree that the first kiss sets the tone for an entire relationship. If it's terrible, things tend to go very badly. Shall we see, instead, what happens if it all starts with a very nice kiss? Please consider it my apology for being incredibly busy and taking so long to post. **

* * *

The meal had been wonderful. The steak had been perfectly cooked, the accompanying potato delicious, and the desert… well, Greg didn't know of any compliments that would do that particular chocolate confection justice, so decided to ask John later what the most complimentary words in his vocabulary were. It got quite a work out, considering how often he was employing them for Sherlock.

It was only ten minutes into the opera, however, when Greg was beginning to wish that he'd agreed to cut the evening short. Mycroft had offered him a chance to escape after dinner, looking slightly guilty at the thought of dragging Greg to the opera after all, but the cop, always game for anything and wanting to spend more time with the politician whose conversation had only gotten easier as the night had gone on, hadn't even hesitated. Now, he was reconsidering that particular decision… at least, until he looked to the seat next to him and noticed unusual, beautiful eyes gleaming at him in amusement.

Greg wrinkled his nose a little, knowing that the little smirk on Mycroft's face was a direct result of his own thoughts and wanting to express that he understood. Mycroft inclined his head ever so slightly, eyes darting to his right before moving back to lock on Greg's. Not wanting to miss whatever it was he was being told, Greg glanced over to see the Prime Minister slumped in his chair, head thrown back, sleeping with his mouth open and drooling a little. He had to put his own hand over his mouth to suppress the laugh that rose up at the rather comical sight, and Mycroft's smile got a little wider and a little more genuine.

Dating Mycroft was an interesting experience, for a number of reasons. He was a man wrapped in mystery, and it was a well-known fact, at least to those who knew him, that the secrecy that surrounded him was because he basically was the British Government. He sometimes spoke in confusing statements that made very little sense, crypticism seemingly second nature to him, and then he'd come out with something outrageous that he didn't even realize was out of the ordinary. He'd mentioned over dinner, for example, that the PM was dating the supermodel currently seated at his right to cover the fact that he was actually in love with one of the actors in the opera they were currently watching.

Greg hadn't been completely sure he'd been serious until he'd reviewed the matter-of-fact tone the other man had used, and even then, it had had a sense of unreality until he'd seen the longing glances the two men had shot each other across the busy atrium before the actor had had to go and get into costume and the PM had needed to deal with the press.

Mycroft's sense of humor, too, was sometimes strange, but Greg was learning it quickly. It was dry, often delivered in a normal tone of voice, and rarely did he offer any indication that he'd made a joke other than some small change in his expression, usually best indicated by a gleam in his eyes.

But Greg was beginning to think, as he casually joined their hands and then turned his attention back to the stage, that he liked this silent Mycroft best. There was no verbal misdirection, and no vaguely confusing conversation to keep up with. He did think that those things would fade in time, as Mycroft began to trust him more, but for now, the easiest way to communicate seemed to be by saying nothing at all, but letting their eyes do the talking.

This continued throughout the night—it was a surprisingly long opera, and he remembered Mycroft's comment during dinner about it being okay to nap, so long as he didn't snore—but Greg didn't mind, as he was enjoying their silent flirtation. As the production went on, he found himself absentmindedly untangling their fingers so he could trace patterns on Mycroft's palm, something the politician seemed to find fascinating judging by the way his gaze suddenly became riveted to his hand for a solid five minutes.

Of course, Mycroft wasn't one to let anyone else lead a dance if he could help it, so he ended up returning the favor, tapping morse code commentary into Greg's palm that nearly cracked the cop up. He remembered when he'd learned the code, thanks to one particularly memorable case with Sherlock, and wondered if Mycroft had known he understood that language, or if he hadn't cared if Greg knew what he was saying or not. It didn't seem to matter, and when the other man leaned over after a long pause in the music, lips brushing against Greg's ear, any thoughts of asking vanished into thin air. It wasn't important.

"This is the end of the first part, and fortunately for both of us, there are only two. The last half is, I believe, actually slightly shorter. And then you shall never have to endure this again. We shan't leave the box." Mycroft settled back down, then, just as Greg was thinking that he'd endure anything again for the brush of the other man's breath over his neck, that hand curving gently over his shoulder and then holding a little tighter as if he might slip away… Hastily redirecting his thoughts, lest he manage to embarrass himself before he even got half a chance to get things right with the man beside him, Greg risked another glance at the PM, who was now snoring quietly, and his supposed date, who'd also drifted off.

"I thought you said snoring wasn't allowed. Also, does everyone sleep during these things, and if so, why don't they just record it and market it as a sleep aid?" Mycroft chuckled and shook his head in amusement, laughing a little harder when the PM didn't even stir. Seeing him like that, with his shoulders shaking delicately and his fingers gripping the armrest tightly while he tried to get control of his own reaction, Greg realized that yes, he would probably sit through a thousand operas to see this again… but maybe he wouldn't have to.

"For our next date, we're definitely going someplace in my territory. I'll plan it, and all you'll have to do is show up."

Mycroft sobered with surprising speed, and something in Greg sank. Apparently there wasn't to be another date. He couldn't think what he'd done to screw it up… Maybe it was that joke at the restaurant about the politician who got fooled into choosing hell over heaven…

"You actually want another go at this?" Mycroft sounded incredulous rather than dismissive, and Greg wasn't sure whether to be relieved or confused. He settled for both.

"Well, yeah. I mean, this probably isn't the best date I've been on, but it's not because of the company. And if you can believe it, it's not even close to the worst date I've ever been on. There was this girl who thought that chains were more than just a bad fashion statement, back in Uni… so you could say I've had my share of dates on all ends of the spectrum. This is on the positive end, because of one very important thing."

"Well… I could get the recipe for that steak for you, if you'd like."

"Not the steak, though that was good. _You_, Mycroft." Greg was the one chuckling now, seeing the relief, shock, and happiness mingling on his date's face.

"Oh," Mycroft murmured, a little blown away by the fact that he hadn't managed to cock everything up. He'd been waiting, throughout the entire thing, for Greg to complain or simply get disgusted with the pandering and leave, but he'd been good-natured and gracious, kind even when he was clearly out of his comfort zone, and was now volunteering to subject himself to another night with Mycroft. It was… _What would John call it?_ Probably amazing, or something like that. Extraordinary. Much like Greg himself, though the cop was clearly unaware of that.

"Yes, _oh_. Assuming you want to go out again, that is. I mean, if you really hate wherever I decide to take you, you could just have me thrown out of the country or whatever, so I don't really see what you have to lose besides an afternoon and maybe even night, but still, I'm game for it if you are."

"Aah. I am… That sounds… Yes." All of his normal eloquence clearly gone, with no hope of return as long as those brown eyes were fixed on his showcasing all of Greg's emotions in a way even a normal person wouldn't have been able to miss, Mycroft stumbled through his answer, relieved he'd managed to say anything intelligent-sounding at all. The cop grinned widely and opened his mouth to speak just as the lights dimmed again. Sighing, he settled back into his seat, shooting Mycroft a wistful smile.

Somehow, with the promise of another date on the horizon, the remainder of the opera mercifully flew by for both of them, and they soon found themselves in the back of Mycroft's personal car after having successfully, discreetly, gotten rid of the model and dropped the PM off back at his own home, his boyfriend en route in another car thanks to Anthea.

"You're very well-coordinated about these things, aren't you? It's hardly a wonder you never have a hair out of place." Feeling comfortable enough to tease again, now that he knew he got to have at least one more date with Mycroft, Greg gently tapped him on the calf with the side of his shoe for emphasis as he spoke, grateful for the double-bench seating that allowed them to face each other on the ride. It was a very roomy backseat, and even as he watched the surprised blush creep up onto Mycroft's cheeks, he was wondering if they might, if he was very lucky, make use of that space at some point.

"Well, if I didn't have a talent for multi-tasking, I'd hardly have the job I do. I wouldn't be very useful if I couldn't organize many more lives than just my own." He'd become a little more open with Greg about what it was he did, though he still hadn't offered any sort of real job title, but the vague hints, as well as the date they'd just shared, had been more than enough to confirm Sherlock's accusation of him being the government and then some. Greg wasn't quite sure where he'd found the audacity to even daydream about someone who was clearly so far out of his league, but he didn't seem so far away, with that delicate color streaked across his face.

"Must be hard, though, having to be in control all the time." The comment was borderline flirtatious, but there was something serious beneath that told Mycroft he was making an observation, out of understanding, as well as an offer of a different kind than the others. _Rely on me for a few moments, let yourself fall. I won't let you hit the ground_. But Mycroft had always been terrified of being left bruised and broken, and he knew it would take him a little longer to figure out if he even _could_ accept.

"Yes, I suppose it is." Mycroft focused his gaze on Greg's shoe, which was still improbably brushing against his pant leg. Instead of being annoying, however, he found the small amount of contact oddly comforting.

The car stopped then, making the politician look up, and Greg offered him another of those little regretful smiles, an expression that made Mycroft's heart twist a little.

"I'd like very much to kiss you, Mycroft." At this comment, he felt his pulse beginning to race, a reaction he'd never before really experienced. Licking suddenly dry lips, he wondered what sort of response would say "yes, please!" without being too obvious.

"I wouldn't stop you," he finally settled on, his voice a little rougher and deeper than normal. Greg leaned forward and cupped his cheek with one strong hand, letting the other land on the seat beside him, close to his thigh. Mycroft could practically feel his heat burning through the cloth, setting his own skin alight. He found himself shivering a little, unused to such close contact.

"I won't hurt you, Mycroft," Greg whispered, and then he put his lips on the younger man's, in a kiss so soft and gentle that it shook both of them to the core. Mycroft wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but he knew that wasn't it. And then he didn't know anything at all, consumed by the light contact and the fire that had completely enveloped him.

When the cop pulled back only a few seconds later, Mycroft's eyes were wide and his pulse was pounding, shock and desire mingled in his expression. Greg couldn't resist running his thumb gently over kiss-slicked lips, realizing that if he didn't want to screw everything up, he would need to take it slow with this man.

No matter how confident he was when he was in his element, he'd clearly never had any sort of real intimate relationship before, and if Greg wanted to seduce him, it would have to be a slow, gentle process. Advance and retreat, until Mycroft was comfortable, and then take another step forward. Greg wanted this man, but he had a feeling that Mycroft was worth waiting for. At the very least, he was already enjoying the developing friendship, and knew rushing the other man was the best way to lose all of that.

"Goodnight, Mycroft," Greg said in a low voice, knowing it would be clear that he didn't want to leave, but that he was going to anyway. Those eyes cleared, lit with something like hope, and then the other man was biting his lip, before leaning forward to brush an equally chaste kiss over Greg's lips, making it clear that he did want what was happening, even if he wasn't all that sure how to go about it. It felt like a victory to both of them.

"Goodnight, Gregory." Greg got out and after one last, lingering glance from the curb, he quietly closed the door, and Mycroft knocked for the driver to take him home, mind oddly calm for the first time in a very long time.


	8. Dare

**A/N: Well. I was clearly a bit off on that "posting every few days" prediction. My only excuse is that real life waits for no one and nothing. I offer my apologies, and this chapter, in the hopes that those readers who actually still care about this story might forgive me. Please enjoy, and I'll try very hard not to get sidetracked and be out of touch for so long in the future. I do still care about this story! Now, I suppose I should let you get on with it!**

**~Wings**

* * *

Sherlock took one last long look at himself in the mirror, taking a deep breath and smoothing his shirt down again. Then he ran a hand through his hair angrily, throwing himself backward onto his bed and growling at his ceiling.

"This is impossible!" He'd been on his phone during the entire taxi ride back to Baker Street, looking up ways to follow Molly's advice that were considered socially acceptable. He had a feeling, for example, that borrowing a human heart from the morgue, putting it in preservatives, and offering it to John was a bad idea, but it was the sort of thing that Sherlocks do. John, extraordinary though he was, likely had far more traditional ideas of what romance entailed, and though Sherlock wasn't at all sure he was actually capable of being something John might want, he needed to at least attempt it.

The only website he'd really found that seemed to offer reasonable advice had suggested that he dress more nicely than normal, offer John compliments on his own attire, and be interested in the things John was interested in. Sherlock didn't have any idea how to compliment others without alarming them, John could see through him every time he faked emotions no matter how good an actor he was, and to top it all off, he had a habit of dressing nicely on a daily basis anyway, so short of putting on a full out tuxedo and bow tie, it seemed that he would simply be in his usual attire.

"Sherlock?" John's voice directed the consulting detective to the living room, but he lingered for a moment longer in his own room, wondering how he could possibly pull this off. After taking a moment to fix his hair and straighten his clothes again, Sherlock scowled at the mirror and then left his room.

"Aah, there you are. Ready to go?" Sherlock turned to let loose a sharp comment born of frustration, but the words died in his throat. John wasn't dressed in one of his cuddly jumpers, for the first time in a while, judging by the way he was tugging nervously at the sleeves of the tight black shirt.

"John, you look… I've never seen that shirt before." Realizing that his silver tongue was apparently on vacation for the night, Sherlock tried to fumble his way through a compliment after all, then panicked and aborted. As a result, John was looking at him strangely as he reached for an old jacket, tighter than his normal one, and pulled it on. In tighter jeans, a shirt that seemed molded to his body, and that jacket, he looked like something out of one of Sherlock's wettest dreams, and he didn't seem to have any idea that the younger man's eyes were scanning his body as if he'd happily devour him.

"Yeah, I guess you wouldn't have. It's a relic from my army days. I'm actually kind of surprised it still fits, though it's tighter than I remembered… but if I'm going to a club, I should at least look a little like I belong there." At these words, Sherlock looked down at himself and nearly cursed. John, who caught the flash of panic even though he'd been remarkably oblivious to every other emotion on Sherlock's face so far that night, chuckled and shook his head.

"Sherlock, relax. It's not the kind of club where you'll be out of place, looking like that, and in any event, you look good. Are you ready to go, then?" Not sure why a compliment should make him more nervous, Sherlock considered scolding John for assuming he was nervous at all… and then he noticed the way John's eyes lingered just a little too long on his shirt before moving up to meet his eyes. _Oh_. The genius couldn't remember that ever having happened before, and found himself hoping it was more than a one-time occurrence. He supposed he'd find out as the night went on.

"I suppose so." Tugging on his own jacket and scarf, more out of habit than concern for the weather, Sherlock let John lead them out onto the street for once, considering the information of where the club was located was not yet part of his map. Better then to let his companion show him the way.

"I've heard it's a decent place, at least. I know jazz isn't your usual kind of music, but I think the newness of it might at least provide a little bit of fun for you. .If not, it's not so far from home." John paused, then sighed.

"We should go to Angelo's first though, I guess. I still haven't thanked him properly."

"I did," Sherlock blurted out, having nearly run into the doctor when he stopped quickly in the middle of the sidewalk. John turned around, tilting his head, and Sherlock could read that he was both amused and puzzled.

"I stopped in on my way home from the morgue and thanked him, so you wouldn't have to bother with it," Sherlock explained, wondering if his face could possibly be as red as it was beginning to feel. The action had been partly designed to be nice, but also to give him a little extra time to wrap his mind around the idea of their… he still didn't have the confidence to call it a date, but was starting to hope that it might, possibly, be what he imagined it was. At the very least, he could pretend, at least until John hooked up with another of his women and forgot him again.

"That was nice," John said with a smile, "but I was kind of planning to make sure you ate, too." Sherlock winced then, internally, wondering how stupid he could possibly be. Yes, he objected to eating as a general rule because it slowed him down, but he wondered if his flat mate had realized just how quickly he capitulated when it was the doctor offering him food. It was just another way in which John had far more influence over him than he could possibly realize.

John must have seen something of what he was feeling flickering over his face, because he simply shrugged and nudged Sherlock with his shoulder, making the consulting detective wonder how such brief contact could possibly cause the phenomenon known as butterflies.

"No worries. I'm not particularly hungry myself, and in any case, we don't want to get to the club too late. Better to go when there will still be seats available, yeah? I'm sure if you're hungry we could grab something there." Though Sherlock knew that the club was unlikely to provide a candle and congratulations on their relationship the way Angelo would, he felt his heart lift a little anyway, watching John try to take care of him in multiple ways all at once. He'd always been very independent, insisted that he didn't need someone to watch his back or force typical human standards on him, but it was unaccountably nice when John did it.

"This seems a fair conclusion, yes." Sherlock was barely paying attention to the conversation, thanks to the fluttering feeling caused by the way John was walking a little closer than two friends normally would, when John started laughing. Startled, he looked down at the doctor to see those sapphire eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Sorry, it's just… you totally sounded like Spock, just there. And yes, I know you don't know who that is since pop culture can't help you solve murders or enrich your mind according to you, but that was just funny." Because he knew he couldn't tell John that he would be anything, if it would make him laugh like that, Sherlock didn't say anything at all, simply tucked his hands down in his pockets and continued walking, saving the memory of John's laughter to his internal hard drive.

There were things he valued that didn't have any importance outside of the way they made him want to smile, cry, and throb with need all at the same time, but John was clearly unaware of that.

Once they arrived, John sent Sherlock to grab a table while he went to get them drinks. Knowing John knew his preferences well enough to not grab him something as pedestrian as bottled beer, Sherlock simply went and grabbed a booth, to offer some small measure of privacy. There were still times, when the two of them went out, where readers of John's blog and people who wasted their time with the over-sensationalized, poorly reported "news" of the day came up to them and asked for autographs. John had found it funny at first, but he tended to object when they started talking about what a cute couple the two of them made, and Sherlock didn't want any interruptions that night.

Of course, while he sat in the half-dark and amused himself by lighting the candle on their table, a touch he hadn't expected that he found entertaining nonetheless, Sherlock was not present. He was locked in his mind, a place he'd been finding himself more and more before John Watson had come along and saved him from himself, going over his conversation with Molly only hours before.

There had been something like resignation in her eyes when she'd been discussing with him the way he felt about John, and he might have put it down to her loss of hope, were it not for the fact that, even while she was telling him that the doctor would be harder to sway, there had been something in the set of her jaw that told him she didn't really believe her own words. Was it possible, then, that John might actually like him back…? He had, after all, basically employed the same advice Molly had given _Sherlock_… It was something to think about, but then John was back, and the musicians were starting to take the stage to a smattering of polite applause. It was too early in the evening for a real crowd, but there were more than a few couples… in fact, Sherlock didn't see anyone _but_ couples.

"Thank you," he murmured, accepting the wine—in a proper glass, no less—that John had brought back for him. John sat down beside him and took a pull of his beer, sighing a little as the cool liquid slid down his throat. Sherlock experienced a strange moment in which he almost wished he was the bottle, to get pressed against John's lips like that.

"That to your liking, then?" John set his beer down and relaxed against the seat, apparently unbothered by the fact that their hands, both of which were resting on the padded bench between them, were nearly touching. Sherlock licked his lips and nodded, deciding to try his hand at a little bit of flirting. Just as a test.

"Very nearly everything about the evening so far has been." _There_, he thought then, watching John's eyes widen just a fraction at the nearly purring tone he'd used. Instead of seeming repulsed, as he still half-expected, his pupils dilated slightly… How on earth had Sherlock missed this?

Still, the whole thing wasn't over yet. Yes, John was apparently physically attracted to him, but Sherlock had always known that he was physically appealing. His personality was the thing that had ensured that no one he would ever have allowed himself to want would have been capable of returning his affection, and it was pretty much over, for most people, a few seconds after he'd opened his mouth. _But John stays_.

Sherlock was still arguing with himself when John next spoke, causing him to very nearly miss the doctor's words. Fortunately, he was very good at multitasking when it suited him, so he did catch them.

"That surprises me. I didn't think you cared very much for jazz." It was the challenge in John's eyes that told Sherlock, very clearly, that it was more than an idle comment. It was an invitation to take another step, a dare of sorts that, as John lifted the bottle to his lips again, Sherlock knew he'd be an idiot to refuse.

"I don't. But the company more than makes up for it." Taking a sip of his wine, Sherlock watched as surprise, then hope, then something a little warmer flicked through John's eyes. But instead of making a declaration or a move, John just turned his attention to the stage to listen to the music… and if his hand moved a little closer over the night, while the two talked about insignificant things and Sherlock deduced the patrons coming in and out to earn smiles, neither of them commented on the way just their little fingers ended up side by side, just barely touching.

The walk back to their flat was quiet, and Sherlock wondered if John was going to kiss him, or if he dared initiate anything. But when they got there, John simply smiled at him a bit more gently than normal and wished him a good night, before heading up to his room and closing the door with a quiet click. Sherlock, who was wide awake and knew he likely would be for some time, picked up his violin and started to play John's favorite songs, the only love letter he was capable of composing, in the hopes that the doctor would sleep well that night.


	9. Taking

**A/N: I know this particular chapter probably isn't what people were expecting, but with any luck, it'll still be enjoyable anyway. I'm back on track with this story, so don't worry- there'll be enough sweetness to give you a toothache soon enough. I just felt like these were some issues that these two needed to deal with, and the best way out is through. Now, I'm done blabbering on, since you'll soon see what I meant anyway. Thank you for reading, and please enjoy!**

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A few days later found Mycroft staring at his phone, frowning. There were at least three brewing crises he knew he should be worrying about, but instead, he found himself rereading a text that had made itself known with a cheerful beep approximately two hours before. It had been a distraction since, but rather than dismissing it as he would have any other distraction, he found he kept getting drawn back to it, which was worrying, all things considered.

Greg had texted him only the day before to ask him out again, and Mycroft had happily agreed, clearing the next evening so that he could indulge in a little time with the person who was quickly becoming his favorite companion. Now, thanks to some sort of situation that had arisen from a case he was working on, he was going to be stuck at work until very late.

Growling at the realization that he'd once again quit working, and was now just glaring at his phone as if it might become afraid and tell him what he wanted to hear instead, Mycroft pointedly shoved it down in a desk drawer, shut it with what was probably unnecessary force, and returned his attention to the file folder, organized by Anthea, briefing him on a situation brewing between North Korea and Canada of all places.

Letting the familiar rhythm of fixing other people's problems take over, Mycroft was only aware of his phone's next text alert because Anthea had entered his office to grab the now updated file and carry out Mycroft's orders, and grinned at him a little. Clearly, she was unaware of his current mood.

"That your DI, sir? I do hope he's planning to take you somewhere nice." As professional as Anthea was, there were times when, if the two of them were alone, they did border on being friendly. An unexpected soft side had come out when he and Greg had begun their dance, and those moments had become more frequent. So much so, in fact, that he decided to confide his disappointment in her. She would be discreet, he knew.

"I've no idea who it is. Gregory texted some time ago to cancel our date. He, it would seem, works nearly as often as I do, and was unable to avoid breaking our plans." Deciding to check just in case the other man had managed to get the evening off after all and had texted him, despite knowing that hope would only make the disappointment even more crushing, he pulled out his phone… and cursed.

"It would seem as if Dr. Watson and Sherlock managed to get themselves into mischief as well. I'll need to head to the hospital." It had been a text from one of the men who watched the CCTV security system and reported back to Mycroft on a regular basis. They knew, when anything happened that involved his little brother, that the politician was to automatically be notified. Even more concerned than usual, because the two had been on a case with the Yard that night, Mycroft was already out of his seat and putting on his suit jacket.

"I'll summon a car. Would you like me to go with you to the hospital, sir?" Anthea kept pace with him as he methodically tucked away any open files and then headed for the door, her walk as brisk as his despite being on her phone the entire time.

"That won't be necessary, Anthea, but thank you." Hesitating just before the door, he turned back to her to ask a question.

"I've just checked. It would seem that no one from the Yard was involved in the altercation, and that it was DI Lestrade who drove the pair of them to the hospital. He's fine, Mycroft." Any other aide, for any other politician, probably wouldn't have been so familiar when making the pronouncement. But despite his façade to most of the world, Mycroft was one of the most human people she'd ever met, even if he tried to hide it from everyone, including himself. He needed comforting, and for that, titles simply wouldn't do. Anthea didn't fear for her job. All else aside, she really was the best at what she did.

After a brief, tense but grateful smile, Mycroft was in the car, and a short while later, though the time seemed to stretch knowing that once again he'd be visiting his little brother in the hospital, he had arrived. His driver parked to wait without being told, another well-trained professional, and Mycroft strode into the hospital as if he owned it. He'd actually considered purchasing a similar facility, for all the times Sherlock found his way into them, but decided it wasn't a worthwhile venture. Better to just pay the bills as they came.

Now, when he paused in the waiting room to speak with the nurse who was in charge, he heard his brother's vaguely outraged tones just down the hall, and wondered if it wasn't, perhaps, time to reevaluate. Then he decided to take mercy on the staff, receiving a knowing look from the head nurse, who'd seen him more than once before, and headed back to stop his little brother from making anyone cry.

"Mycroft." Sherlock was frowning, but since he didn't make a smart comment about his weight, Mycroft assumed they were still on good terms. It was, to be fair, sometimes hard to tell with Sherlock, and the younger man was even more predictable when John was injured, he'd learned over the past couple of years. In any event, their new friendship of sorts was still tentative enough that Mycroft waited until the nurse who'd been trying to bandage the consulting detective's arm finally left with a huff and a glare.

"Sherlock, it's good to see you're well, despite the intentions of that burglar." Sherlock made a face, one that said he was quite displeased with the results of the case.

"There was nothing in his profile to suggest he'd resort to violence, let alone a gun, of all things. He didn't even really know how to shoot." Sherlock had, fortunately, received only a few cuts and scrapes from the whole encounter, and those, only because John had shoved him to the floor behind a conveniently placed kitchen island to avoid the barrage of bullets the idiotic burglar had sent their way.

He'd run out of bullets only a few seconds later, and grabbed a knife off the kitchen counter. John had incapacitated him with ease, as he had had next to no experience with weapons and was fairly alarmed by the whole situation to begin with. Then the doctor had calmly tied him up, called Lestrade, and then checked to make sure neither of the two of them were bleeding too badly, before taking a seat at the still intact kitchen table of the rich couple from the target neighborhood who'd agreed to let them spend the night and keep a look out, and waiting patiently.

"Cornered animals are unpredictable." Mycroft's succinct summary of the situation was fitting so Sherlock shrugged, not quite willing to admit he'd miscalculated but unable to argue with the facts, either.

"They took John elsewhere. He just had a few scrapes as well, but they refused to let us stay in the same room." Sherlock was wearing a scowl that would likely quickly turn into scornful words directed toward hospital personnel, likely to their faces, and though Mycroft typically cleaned up his brother's messes, he knew better than to try and redirect Sherlock's ire, because it could as easily be directed toward him.

"Sherlo… Mycroft." Greg stood in the doorway, and looked surprised to see Mycroft standing beside the consulting detective he'd lingered to check on, despite knowing how bad he was about hospitals and how annoying he was likely to be until John was back at his side.

"Gregory." Mycroft hadn't realized he was still upset about their broken date, especially since he knew how often his own schedule would complicate things for them if they continued their… flirtation, but the chill in his voice indicated to both of them that he was at least a little irritated.

"Mycroft. I… Look, can we talk?" Running a hand through his already ruffled hair, a sure sign he'd repeated the action more than once over the course of the night, Greg headed for the hall, seemingly not caring that Sherlock was looking on, his expression quiet and serious as he studied them.

Once outside, Mycroft took the initiative to lead them into an empty room and shut the door, knowing he wouldn't be disturbed. He'd had unavoidable business while sitting vigil at Sherlock's bedside before, after all, and the staff knew by now to leave him alone unless need for the room was critical. It was one of the reasons he approved of the staff, and ensured that no matter the economic situation, the staff here were treated well and paid even better.

"This is as good a place as any, I trust?" Voice a little stiff even now, Mycroft was surprised when Greg calmly walked up, cupped his cheek, and kissed his lips gently, before letting him have his personal space once again.

"I'm sorry about missing our date, Mycroft. Really. I wasn't going to let Sherlock sucker me into working, but then he figured out that the thief was going to strike again, and he told me he was going out on this case whether I was available or not, and I had to weigh seeing you against protecting your brother. I'm pretty sure I made the choice you'll approve of, and I'm certain that I made the right choice, so if you've a problem with that, we should probably address it now."

Greg's voice had stayed calm, and even though he was explaining, his words didn't sound like excuses. Mycroft felt his anger melt away, and just as abruptly, the emotion that had been beneath it using it as a shield rose to the surface, something he wasn't sure how to deal with, or explain.

"I… not a problem." Now it was Mycroft's turn to move, except he moved away, and wasn't looking at Greg, which worried the older man… until he saw the fear and confusion on his face as he shook his head, a small, very unhappy smile on his face.

"I'm… extremely unequipped to deal with all of… this. The longer you have away from me… the easier it would be for you to change your mind, and then what would I do? I'm trying… I don't really understand how any of this works, and I just… Gregory. I find I want to be near you all the time, and I know that's ridiculous, but I never truly had a friend, let alone… whatever you and I are." Mycroft wasn't even entirely sure he'd managed a full statement, let alone that his words had actually been coherent, but Greg surprised him by chuckling and actually walking over to tug him into his arms and pull him in for a hug that was as comforting as it was inexplicable.

"I like you, Mycroft. I really, truly like you. You don't need to worry; I'm not going anywhere. Just because your nutter of a brother drags me out on a case, it doesn't mean I'm suddenly going to decide that you aren't worth it. I'm pretty sure you are, and in any event, a little time apart won't change my mind. I know this is new for you, so you're allowed this silliness just this once, but you need to get it clear in your head that I'm here. I can't offer you anything other than my word on that, but my word is considered good in most circles."

Feeling foolish, though the sense of relief was more than worth the embarrassment of the confession, Mycroft let Greg hold him for a little while longer—then surprised the older man by hugging him back, letting himself soak in the calm, confident strength the cop pretty much embodied.

When he did pull away, he found himself kissing Greg's cheek, hoping the gesture conveyed so much more than simple affection. It did.

"Ready to go back and make sure he isn't making the nurses cry again?" Mycroft smiled, nodding at the question. When Greg took his hand, he allowed the contact to last as they went back to Sherlock's room where he was indeed harassing another nurse, wondering why it felt so much like he was also taking his heart. And why he didn't mind. As far as he was concerned, it was Greg's for the taking.


	10. Intoxicating

**A/N: You get another chapter fairly quickly, as thanks for the lovely reviews and your support. I'm just going to say that with the way real life is going today, it really, really helped to know that my writing matters to some of you out there. Anyway, I really hope you like this chapter, and now I'll stop taking up your time and let you get on with it!**

**~Wings**

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_Fear_. It was acrid on his tongue, and the cloying mist enveloped in the heavy, seemingly endless darkness only reinforced the sense that he was trapped. Bile rising in his throat, he stretched his hands out in front of him blindly, grasping nothing, seeking _something_ he instinctively knew he could not live without but couldn't… quite… remember. And then a gunshot, somewhere out there between the writhing shadows, and he was running, slipping on the sand beneath his feet, toward the sound rather than away, a wordless scream on his lips as the blackness opened, for a second, revealing a pale, cool body on the ground, swathed in black and streaked with crimson…

He woke up gasping for air, shoulder throbbing where a bullet wound lingered as a reminder of mortality. Everyone died, and he knew no one was unaffected by the process… and coming back from the edge had changed him forever.

Taking deep breaths helped to calm him as he glanced around the room out of habit—his nightmares had alarmed more than one bedmate—and a spark of light from the streetlamp just outside illuminated, as his eyes crossed over it, an old picture, sitting in a frame on his nightstand.

Picking it up, he switched on the lap that lived beside it so he could stare into the hopeful, sparkling eyes of the boy he'd been the very day before he'd been shipped out. When Sherlock came up to his room a few minutes later in his usual check to make sure John was okay, he was surprised to find him not asleep, but sitting up with a thoughtful, slightly wistful expression on his face. This was not his normal reaction after one of his nightmares, and perhaps that was why Sherlock lingered, but more likely, it was the strange vulnerability on his face, that spoke of loss the genius thought he understood, but wasn't sure of.

Senses even more acute, in the wake of the panic of the dream, John noticed, more quickly than usual, that the subject of the night terror was standing just outside his door, peering in through the slight crack he'd left it open. It was habit, just in case Sherlock needed him or someone broke in. John didn't like to be unaware, and had it been anyone else outside his room, he'd likely have reached first for his gun, before figuring out who it was. But something in him was attuned to Sherlock, seemed to know whenever he was near, and so he didn't freak out. Instead, he looked up and beckoned him inside, something he knew he wouldn't have been likely to do before their dinner the week before.

It had changed things, in a pleasant way. Very nearly a date, or possibly _actually_ a date, it was the closest John had ever come to acknowledging the pull he felt toward his crazy detective, and he'd been startled, then pleased, when Sherlock had attempted, in his own way, to make overtures back. He'd actually flirted a little and John, barely able to believe his own eyes and ears, had wanted, badly, to see if those lips were as soft as they looked.

He knew what had held him back, of course. There had been a flicker of hesitation in Sherlock, as if he wasn't all that sure that he was doing things right. He didn't want to put any sort of pressure on the younger man to take things further, not until he was sure he was comfortable with the progression.

Imagining kissing someone and truly wanting to do so were two very different things, and though Sherlock had clearly been thinking about it, it had been with a wary focus that he'd watched John when they'd returned to the flat, and John had realized that he was beginning to _overthink_ it. Rather than allow their first kiss to be something Sherlock analyzed within an inch of his own life, as John was something of a romantic and would only be irritated if Sherlock tried to describe the act scientifically or deduce it, he'd chosen to end the night there. If and when they took another step, it would be when both of them were definitely ready, and before Sherlock could second-guess the relationship before it had a chance to _be_.

Courting Sherlock Holmes was certainly an interesting experience, but it wasn't something the doctor was really up for after his nightmare. At that moment, what he needed more than a romantic partner was a friend. When Sherlock entered hesitantly and took a seat on the edge of the bed, dressed in an old cotton tee and flannel pants, John was grateful the only thing in his eyes was lingering concern.

"Did I wake you? I'm sorry about that. It was nothing." John tried to wave it off even as he casually put the photo frame back on his nightstand, curious what Sherlock would do. Contrary to whatever the public thought, it was an unusual situation for the pair of them, though John was certain Sherlock knew about his nightmares. It was just doubtful he knew about the turn they'd taken not long after the pool incident, and then after, anytime they were in a situation when John feared for the genius's life.

Would Sherlock allow him to blow it off, or would he try to offer comfort? His reaction would go a long way toward expressing to John just how ready he was for a real emotional bond, and would probably determine, indirectly, the path their flirtations went. John knew he'd settle for whatever Sherlock could give him, but he really hoped that he could find a way to open himself up and give them a real chance. He also hoped, perhaps most importantly, that they were good enough friends that Sherlock would care enough not to let him take the easy way out.

"I wasn't asleep, and that wasn't nothing. Even more worrisome than the fact that you had a vivid nightmare is the fact that, instead of going back to sleep as is your usual pattern, you've chosen to wake up more fully. That would suggest that it was of greater import than usual to you."

John could only blink. It hadn't occurred to him that Sherlock might know how he usually dealt with his nightmares. Somehow, that didn't fell like the casual observation he'd probably intended it to seem like. Intrigued, John decided to explore this unusual side of Sherlock, but before he could, the consulting detective nodded toward the picture frame.

"Why were you looking at yourself?" There was a slight frown on his lips, emotions of the non-homicidal domain not really his division, and John found that instead of feeling sad and still vaguely ill, as he had only minutes ago, he wanted to smile.

Sherlock had a tendency of illuminating even the darkest corners, and the daft, beautiful man had absolutely no clue.

"I suppose I was thinking about how much I've changed, how much I've lost… how easy it would be for everything good to be gone." Deciding that an honest query deserved an honest answer, and knowing that if the emotional response bothered him Sherlock would dismiss it, John took a chance. To his surprise, the frown faded into something like a smile, soft and bitter all at once, tinged with unmistakable recognition.

"I no longer look at pictures of the past. It's one of the reasons I prefer not to be photographed. Who I used to be… he's not a man you would have wanted to know. Retrospection, regrets… I've always thought those things were for people who are too afraid to embrace their present. It has occurred to me recently, however, that a certain amount might be healthy, and my reluctance might stem not from strength, but from fear. It's a rather different viewpoint, I suppose."

"What could you possibly be afraid of?" John knew that drugs had been a part of Sherlock's past, but he also knew that wasn't what haunted his genius tonight, as he sat on the edge of the bed with eyes as remote as the farthest, dimmest stars.

"That I haven't changed at all." Sherlock's expression was vacant, the way most people typically saw it, but John heard the aching sadness in his voice, knew there was more he wanted to say. So instead of trying to offer him reassurance, he waited, instead.

"I know, of course, that there are many who consider me a better man for having known you. However, I fear, much of the time, that I modulate my behavior only because of your presence. There is a part of me that would be almost certain to revert, possibly even worsen, if I lost you. I understand your nightmares, John, because I have my own. Usually, _I _am my nightmare, the thing that drives you away, becomes an echo of Moriarty… It would be so easy. The man I used to be would probably do it all to be entertained."

John gave him a few more minutes, but when Sherlock didn't speak again, he decided that meaningless platitudes wouldn't do him any good. Sherlock valued only the truth, and was often blunt about it, so it only made sense that in this, he would only really respect if John acted the same way.

"You aren't who you used to be, though. From what I can tell, you value my life more highly than your own. When we met, you didn't care about anything except the Work. I think you were trying to protect yourself, and that you're beginning to realize that around certain people, you don't need to. Fear is a powerful motivator, but I've learned that there's one emotion that can override it." Their eyes met, and in that moment, the tenuous connection that had formed almost from the very first day they'd met flared bright and strong. John had been moving toward the end of the bed as he spoke, and they were close now, close enough to touch…

Close enough that their lips met with very little effort on either side, a gentle brush of lips that was sweet and soft, not because either man was tentative, but because they knew there would be all the time in the world for fireworks and explosive passion, for shoving one another up against walls and doors and alleyways and any other hard surfaces against which they might find themselves. For now, John and Sherlock just wanted to fall into each other, seek comfort in the warmth of a friend who was so much more, and neither saw a reason to resist the impulse now.

When they finally eased back, Sherlock's tongue darted nervously over his lips, his eyes full of a thousand questions. John answered all of them with a soft smile.

"Stay here tonight? Maybe we can both sleep without fear." The offer could have been a loaded one, but Sherlock instinctively knew it wasn't. John lay back down beneath the covers, and Sherlock knew there would be no hard feelings if he wasn't quite ready. Oddly enough, that was all the reassurance he needed that it was the right choice, to stay and… just see. See if holding one another in the night led to what he was looking for. It only occurred to him as he carefully crawled beneath the covers with John and grabbed his hand that he still hadn't been convinced that he could do this, that this was something it was okay for him to want. Wondering what Mycroft would make of that, and if that was maybe a conversation they could have, Sherlock closed his eyes.

Morning dawned crisp and clear, somewhere outside, not that the residents of 221B were aware of that. The first thing Sherlock was aware of when he woke was that he was much warmer than he was accustomed to being, and that there was an unfamiliar weight on his chest that didn't send any immediate warning signals to his brain. Curious, with his brain still rebooting, Sherlock opened his eyes… and found himself smiling down at the blond head lying on his shoulder. John had turned to him sometime in the night, that much was obvious, and he'd wrapped a possessive arm around Sherlock's waist, brought one leg up over both of Sherlock's.

He debated trying to move, just to see if that arm would seek to keep him there or let him go, but decided against it. It felt incredibly good to just be held, and Sherlock couldn't ever remember being so at peace. Nothing had really happened. They were both still dressed, and all they'd shared the night before was one long, innocent kiss. Still, the serenity that filled him up, even as his hand absentmindedly stroked John's shoulder and the doctor began to stir, was more intoxicating than lust could ever be.


	11. Safe

**A/N: Hello my lovely readers, I'd just like to say thank you for the reviews and I hope this chapter is sexy and fluffy enough to suit the tastes of those who wanted more of those things. Enjoy!**

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There were weeks that seemed to stretch on due to Mycroft attempting to shove twenty five hours into twenty four, but never had a week seemed so long as the one he had finally, blessedly, finished. Letting out a small sigh, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, decompressing as much as he could. He'd spent most of the private plane ride back to London reviewing his own mental notes on the situation he'd just fixed, making sure it wouldn't go critical anytime soon, but now he needed his brain to switch gears.

Gregory had invited him on another date. This one, luckily, he was going to be able to make, but Mycroft hadn't been quite sure that he wasn't going to be the one bowing out, this time. Just in case, he'd done his best to speed things along, even forgoing sleep entirely the past two nights—and asking the extremely dedicated, loyal Anthea to do the same the night before—so he could make it back. Now, he was going to manage it, but only just. And he was exhausted.

Like Sherlock, he had a tendency to not take care of himself, often forgetting food and sleep in the pursuit of his goals. He could be single-minded, and was grateful that his role in the government frequently required him to sit down with food. He would, likely, be as undernourished as Sherlock frequently was. However, that didn't solve all of his problems, and now as he looked over at Anthea, whose head rested against the back of her seat which was reclined so she could sleep, he wished he had the luxury of time off.

It was true that his little brother's mind stagnated without the work, and Mycroft was usually pleased that he never really got a breather between his own cases, but in situations like this, it was more an annoyance than anything. He hadn't realized it would take so much energy to get to know another human being, and if he didn't like the cop so much, he wasn't sure he would continue trying.

He had considered taking a little more time off. There were people to whom he could delegate some of his work, men and women whose minds were adequate to solve a few of the simpler problems. But none of them had his efficiency, flair, or foresight, and there was a large part of him that feared that giving up his absolute control would lead to more problems than it was worth.

That didn't stop him from still being tired when the plane finally taxied onto the runway, then pulled into the gate and stopped. Anthea woke nearly as soon as the engine cut off, having trained herself to notice changes in her environment even in her sleep, but still looked exhausted as they disembarked. Mycroft could only imagine what he himself looked like, and had to suppress a cringe when she raised an eyebrow at the state of his suit.

"How bad do I look?" Normally, Mycroft wasn't a vain man, and if he wasn't looking to impress other officials, or intimidate those who needed it, he tended not to care. Rarely did he have a hair out of place, but he was going on a _date_. He didn't want to show up looking rough, for fear that Gregory would realize what a bad choice he was making getting involved with him and run for the hills. For some reason, he seemed to like him so far, and the last thing Mycroft wanted to do was lose that budding connection.

"I think you need a suit that doesn't look like it's been worn for the past three days, and maybe to drink some coffee or something. You don't look your best, certainly." Anthea paused, then scanned him critically. "Actually, I think you should just go home and go to bed. You're not going to make a good impression on anyone, and even if we fix the suit, your eyes are bloodshot and you're swaying on your feet."

Mycroft scowled, but didn't bother arguing. He knew she was right.

"Do you think the Detective Inspector would be terribly put out if I was unable to make it tonight?" Technically, as he was in London and not dying or working on anything that had presented itself as a code red, he had no valid excuse for not showing up, but he wasn't sure he could bear trying to present himself as intelligent and charming when he was feeling anything but.

"Go home, Mycroft. I'll text your Gregory and explain." Nodding at his PA, and ignoring the spark of warmth in his gut that resulted from her referring to the cop as his because he was too tired to respond properly, Mycroft decided that he would apologize properly in the morning. Possibly with a gourmet breakfast and a dozen roses. He could barely walk in a straight line to the car that waited for him, let alone think about the fact that it wasn't very polite of him to not text his… boyfriend? Significant other? himself.

Once he'd reached his building, he practically dragged himself to the elevator bank, pressed the button for the penthouse, and then slumped against the wall with his eyes closed as he waited for it to arrive. When it did, he swayed a little before catching himself and stumbling to his door, dragging out his key and barely managing to get his eye wide open enough for the retinal scan.

He was completely unprepared for what awaited him inside his flat, however, and when he opened the door, there was a part of him that wondered if he was already asleep.

Greg, concern open on his face, rose from where he'd been sitting on the sofa and walked over to him, pressing a kiss to his forehead before guiding him back the hall. Too tired to argue, or even question how the other man had gotten into a flat with tighter security than Buckingham Palace, he allowed Greg to undress him with gentle hands, replace his suit with the silk bottoms he slept in, and tuck him in under the covers. Mycroft barely registered that the flat smelled of Chinese food, or that Greg smoothed his hair back from his forehead and pressed a kiss to his brow, before succumbing to the lure of his warm, soft bed.

The stale scent of soy sauce and something spicy were the first things Mycroft registered when he began to drift back to consciousness, but it wasn't until he opened his eyes that he realized there was someone else in bed with him, a sure sign that he'd been out cold. He found himself blushing as concerned, chocolate brown eyes scanned his face, even as he was trying to figure out exactly how the other man had come to be in his flat.

"Anthea took the liberty of allowing me in last night, after texting me to let me know you were tired enough to fall asleep standing." Greg ruffled his own messy grey hair, smiling a little as he looked at Mycroft. He seemed completely at ease in the politician's bed, wearing black trousers and no shirt, propped up on the pillow on his elbow. He looked delicious, but Mycroft could only think of how he'd managed to screw up their date, hadn't even had the courtesy to _tell_ Greg himself that he wasn't going to make it… and yet, for whatever reason, he'd come here anyway, to… watch Mycroft sleep?

"You could have told me you were exhausted, My. I'd have understood. I know you push yourself insanely hard, what with the Holmes work ethic which would probably kill ordinary men within a week. I wouldn't have been mad or anything, you know. I just feel bad. Anthea mentioned you planned to show up until she pretty much forced you to go home. And I'd already picked up the food anyway, so I just brought it here. It's in your fridge, if you're interested in eating now. You probably should; Anthea also mentioned that you hadn't eaten for at least a day before getting on that plane, and now you've slept through another one."

Mycroft could only blink at this. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept through an entire _night_, let alone for a full day and night. The only explanation he could come up with was that he'd felt safe, in a way he didn't think he could ever remember feeling. It was certainly strange.

"Fortunately, she was able to pull some strings so I could have a bit of time off to stay and look after you. She was very nearly certain you'd rush right back into work, and I was pretty sure she was right. I'm to make sure that you eat and relax a bit before heading back to the office. It's just gone eight now, so if you think you're ready to be up, I can go heat everything up."

Mycroft, who wasn't sure exactly what was going on but had a feeling his life had been hijacked due to his PA and… Gregory deciding that he couldn't take care of himself, nodded and then looked down, blushing more at their combined state of dress. He found himself staring at the cop's chest, toned from years of police work on the street, and wished he looked half as good.

Tipping the redhead's face up by a gentle nudge on his chin, Greg held him like that for a moment and pressed their lips together in an affectionate but chaste kiss. Then he slid out of bed, stretched, and padded on bare feet out to the kitchen, humming an off-tune, barely audible song as he presumably readied them a meal.

Running a hand over his face, Mycroft rose and tugged on a shirt before making his way hesitantly out to grab a seat at the table and watch Greg work. He moved efficiently but gracefully, as if he had all the time in the world but refused to waste a movement, and it wasn't long at all before a giant pile of steaming rice was sitting on the table between them, surrounded by other cartons of a wide variety of foods.

"I wasn't sure what you'd like, so I figured I'd just get a sampling of everything I like, and let you choose from there. Our date was going to be this, followed by cuddling and telly. I know that's a pretty pedestrian idea, but I couldn't imagine you ever having done it, and I know it's how I like to relax, and with you having been away on business… Well, it just seemed like a good idea. Fortunately, it was also a very flexible plan, so we can have our date and I can follow Anthea's orders." Grinning, Greg helped himself to some food, watching Mycroft watch him as he slowly did the same.

"Thank you, for being so flexible. I apologize for disrupting our date, all the same. Perhaps I was a bit… overzealous regarding work this week, but I wished to not be forced to cancel on you." Mycroft sounded stiff, but that wasn't why Greg frowned.

"My… look, it doesn't bother me, us both having busy schedules. But you can't run yourself into the ground like this, especially not just so you can make a date. I understand, at least in part, what your life is like, and how much falls to you to handle and control. What I'm not okay with is you running yourself ragged needlessly. You need a keeper, love." The last was said in a teasing, affectionate tone, but it was possibly the first time anyone had used that particular endearment in regard to the politician, who turned scarlet.

"I am unaccustomed to having a reason to rush home. Perhaps I was overenthusiastic." Knowing that was probably the closest he was going to get to Mycroft conceding defeat, and oddly pleased that Mycroft had been willing to push so hard just to see him, Greg decided to let the topic drop, and began eating.

Their meal was mostly silent, with the occasional bit of small talk interspersed with periods of silence, but it was the comfortable sort. Neither felt the need to make conversation, and that was also very nice. For Mycroft, who was used to performing a high wire act with nearly everyone else, it was incredible. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a guest in his home, or even the last time he'd just relaxed with someone. Even with his family, he tended to be a bit stiffer. He found himself relaxing by degrees as the evening went on, however, and by the time they were done eating and Greg had tucked away the leftovers, he felt comfortable enough to take the unspoken but clear invitation to lay his head on Greg's shoulder, letting his arm drape over him as they cuddled on the couch together.

"So what did you do while I was sleeping? I can't imagine you'd have spent the entire time watching me." The show on the telly was one of Greg's favorites, but it was a rerun, and he wasn't going to say no if Mycroft wanted to talk instead. It was nice, having someone care enough to ask about his day.

"No. It was dark when you got home last night, and I'd worked yesterday, so after I made sure you were good I put everything away and kipped on the sofa. This morning, I checked on you again, then went out to grab some breakfast. I did some grocery shopping for you, since your fridge was empty but for a rather black lump of what might once have been lettuce and a long-expired carton of yogurt, and then I came back, put everything away, and cleaned up a bit. Then I called into the Yard to make sure Sherlock hadn't gone in and burned the place down in my absence, and then I went in to check on you again, since it'd been something like twenty four hours without so much as a peep from you. You know what happened from there."

Charmed by the unexpected thoughtfulness, Mycroft surprised both of them by turning to kiss Greg's jawline, making a mental note to have Anthea reimburse him for the money he'd undoubtedly spent. Greg shifted a little, and the politician realized he'd hit an erogenous zone for the DI. _Interesting_. Deciding to explore a bit, he started nibbling his way to Greg's neck, before sucking gently at his pulse point. Noting the way his hips twitched, he moved to nip gently at his ear, catching the half-suppressed moan. He was suddenly very grateful that Greg wasn't wearing a shirt, because the heat his body was giving off was lovely.

Greg, whose thoughts were traveling in much the same direction, waited until Mycroft was taking a breath before contorting to kiss him again, this time much more passionately. Caught off guard, Mycroft shivered and whimpered into Greg's mouth, letting him have control. They tipped slowly, until Mycroft was splayed out on the sofa beneath Greg, and the politician instinctively wrapped his legs around Greg's waist to hold him to him, gasping at the sweet friction of their hips pressed together.

"Mycroft… fuck." Greg's voice was rough and sounded almost like a growl, prayer, and curse all at the same time before he began attacking every inch of exposed skin, before deciding it wasn't enough and practically ripping Mycroft's shirt off, so he could start exploring in earnest. He hadn't intended to rush what lay between them, but Mycroft had started it, and he didn't have the self-control to resist the feelings the innocent but passionate assault evoked in him. He ground his hips down even as he sucked at the younger man's nipples, first one then the other, loving the way his partner began to squirm beneath him, seeking more touch and less all at once. He continued like this for several more minutes, until Mycroft let out a little cry and went nearly limp.

When he realized that Mycroft was quivering and had grabbed his shoulders, he stopped, cursing again. He'd pushed too hard, and Mycroft looked very unsure as he stared up at him with shattered, wide eyes. There was also a wet spot against his crotch, telling him that the younger man had gotten off. That was _not_ how Greg had wanted to handle things, not how he wanted their first real experience to go.

"Gregory?" Mycroft couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so unsure, but he felt as if he'd lived through an earthquake that had leveled everything in its path, and he had no idea how. He was aware, logically, what had happened. However, he was pretty certain that it was not typical behavior to spend in his pants like a teenager after a little bit of making out, and he was embarrassed, confused, and somehow still horny. And he knew, from the telltale hardness that was still lingering against his hip, that Greg hadn't gotten off. He wondered if that made him an inconsiderate lover.

"I am so, so sorry, My. I didn't mean… I've rushed you. Fuck, I'm sorry." Sitting up quickly, despite the desperate need to keep rutting against the delectable politician who looked so debauched and lovely beneath him, Greg buried his face in his hands temporarily, trying to get himself under control.

Mycroft, who was beginning to seriously wonder if he'd screwed up somehow as a result of not knowing what he was doing, could only blink at the cop for a few moments before deciding to try and offer comfort. It had been terrifying, but also… Mycroft couldn't remember ever having felt so very electric, so alive. It had been incredible. Had Greg not enjoyed it? But no, that wasn't what he'd said. He'd… apologized. For rushing him. That was perfectly absurd.

"Gregory? There is no reason to… I very much enjoyed myself. I just didn't know I could feel like that." Blushing, because he still felt rather like a teenager, Mycroft gestured vaguely to the rather obvious bulge in the DI's trousers. "Would you like me to take care of that?"

It was Greg's turn to stare, shocked and awed by Mycroft's offer. It felt incredibly generous, all things considered, and he was about to turn it down when he saw the shining determination in Mycroft's eyes… mixed with desire he wasn't even trying to hide.

"You don't have to," he said immediately, meeting Mycroft's gaze and letting him know it was very much up to him. With a curt nod, Mycroft reached carefully out and began to stroke him through his trousers. Carefully at first, and then with more confidence, until Greg had thrown his head back, mouth open and gasping as Mycroft learned him before leaning in, lips just barely brushing his ear as he whispered.

"Come for me, Gregory. I want to see your face when you come for me." With a groan Greg did just that, and he slumped against the back of the sofa, panting, for several seconds. When he did open his eyes, Mycroft was staring at his work with a pleased grin, apparently not at all uncomfortable with the proceedings of the night. Greg felt relieved in more ways than one.

"That was amazing." Greg didn't know how else to describe it, but it had been possibly one of the best orgasms in his life. There was just something about that _voice_ of his.

"Thank you. I found it quite enjoyable as well." Mycroft didn't comment on the messes the two of them had made, but instead grabbed Greg's hand and tugged him down the hall toward his room. Intrigued, Greg just followed his lead, until the politician led him into a massive bathroom with a huge shower and heated floor tiles. The cop laughed a little at that, and Mycroft looked confused.

"I was actually just thinking about getting tiles like these. Though now that I'm looking, I would happily take the whole set-up." Mycroft knew it was too soon to offer to let Greg move in with him, though there was a part of him that was certain he was more than ready, so he didn't suggest that. But he couldn't resist the idea of Greg in his shower.

"Well, you can certainly come use mine anytime you like. You're keyed in, and I have no plans to revoke your access." Greg looked at Mycroft for a long moment as the two of them stripped out of their now soiled clothes, and then Mycroft pressed a discreet button on the wall, and a flow of hot water began behind the clear glass doors. From a glance at the panel, Greg was sure there were multiple settings, but he selected a simple one.

"I imagine, after that, that we could both use some rest. We'll clean up and then retreat back to bed, if that suits you?" It did, so the two of them did as Mycroft had suggested, and it wasn't long before they were curled up back in bed, each only wearing silk pants from Mycroft's closet of Ridiculously-Expensive-But-Sexily-Intriguing clothes, a term coined by Greg that had made Mycroft blush yet again.

There were probably a thousand things Mycroft could have been doing, and after sleeping an entire day, he knew that if he so chose, he could go in to the office and probably work straight through the next afternoon past what normal people would consider decent business hours, but he had no inclination to do that for once. Instead, he relished the sensation of curling up with the DI, and even though he was the one with his arm wrapped around Greg's waist, playing the big spoon, he found himself drifting off with a smile, feeling warm and content and oddly safe.


	12. Knowing

**A/N: I know that the reason most of you are reading this is for the development of the romantic relationships, but I felt it important to show how both of the delightful Holmes brothers are growing as a result of their courage in trying something new. So, here we have some brotherly bonding time! I hope you enjoy it!**

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Before their heart-to-heart during the long walk back to civilization, time together had been something the brothers avoided like the plague. However, things had changed rather rapidly for both of them, and just as when they'd been children, the first person either of them wanted to tell about the changes in their personal lives, was the other. Now, though their relationship wasn't what it had been, it had recovered enough that it only took Sherlock a few seconds of thought after John went off to the surgery to call Mycroft, no matter that he detested speaking on the phone.

"Brother dear, what can I do for you?" Mycroft, who'd been sitting at his desk finishing off a treaty that would put a stopper in Saudi Arabia's plants to wage war against some of its weaker neighbors temporarily, was both surprised and pleased when he saw Sherlock's name on the caller ID. Deciding he had the time, he picked up, wondering if he might possibly find an opportunity to discuss what he and Greg had done only a couple of nights ago.

"I was wondering if you had time to meet for coffee. You do drink coffee, don't you?" It was the sort of thing Sherlock would delete, and Mycroft chuckled as he wrote the last few words, signed it because his signature carried a great deal of power, and then handed it off to Anthea as he headed for the door.

Because he'd set aside time for at least one Sherlock-related emergency every week, and things had been rather quiet on that front since their return to London, Mycroft didn't feel guilty for taking the time away now. It was far better than having to go to the Yard and bail his little brother out of jail, after all.

"I do, yes. Do you wish to meet at a café, or would my offices at the Diogenes Club be acceptable?" Sherlock tended to hate authority, but judging from the tone of his voice, there were things he wanted to say that he'd be opposed to saying in public. Mycroft could practically hear him thinking on the other end of the line, and knew he was turning the pros and cons over in his head. He also knew what his decision would be before he made it, and directed his driver accordingly.

"I'll meet you at your club in fifteen minutes. Don't send a car." He didn't say goodbye before hanging up, but it was still the most friendly phone conversation they'd shared in quite some time, and it cheered them both up. It was nice, to have someone on their level as an ally when they'd spent so long fighting each other and the world.

Settled in his private office, Mycroft was engaging in two of his vices when Sherlock finally walked through the door. Almost as soon as the door was closed, the younger man breathed a heavy sigh of relief and flung himself inelegantly down into one of Mycroft's leather chairs.

"I don't know how you stand it out there. All the silence. It's actually quite disturbing. No group of people can manage to be quiet for so long under natural circumstances." Sherlock stopped, mid-rant, and gestured to the cigarette held between two of the politician's long, elegant fingers, releasing a thin curl of smoke into the air.

"Could I get one of those? I know John doesn't like it, but I feel as if last night was a special occasion. I can, of course, always blame you for smoking around me if worst comes to worst." Mycroft could only laugh a little at that, knowing that John would love Sherlock no matter how many horrible things he was capable of doing, and a cigarette seemed such a mild thing compared to the other addictions his little brother had possessed over the years.

Mycroft removed another cigarette from the fancy case in his desk—saved, of course, for those things _he_ considered special occasions—and passed it to his brother, after lighting it. Sherlock inhaled, sighed in delight, and then flopped back against the chair again.

"You really are quite hard on the furniture, aren't you, brother mine?" Mycroft's comment wasn't a snipe, that much was clear from his tone, but Sherlock surprised him by frowning.

"I think I'd like to be harder on it, actually." A stream of smoke briefly obscured the air between them. "John and I… We slept together last night. Not sex—just sleep." Even though his brother undoubtedly knew at least the last part from having dissected his appearance as he strolled through the door, Sherlock still wanted to _talk_ about it, which was bizarre.

"Aah. Did you enjoy it? I know you have at times been… adverse to physical contact." It was enough of an understatement that Sherlock actually snorted, before taking another drag. He watched as Mycroft, who'd just finished his, picked up his coffee mug and drank deeply, smiling a little. It was slightly spiked, then. An indulgence. The consulting detective grinned. He wasn't the only one who was celebrating a little victory. And judging by the coffee mug on his side of the massive oak desk, which was at the perfect temperature and also spiked—to Sherlock's liking—his brother had at least deduced from their earlier conversation that he, too, was going to arrive with positive news.

"Never have been with John, oddly enough. I was worried I couldn't go through with it, that it'd be too fast, but then… it's John. He understands me in a way that simply shouldn't be possible for someone who lacks our intelligence, and he possibly knows me better than I know myself, which should alarm me, but doesn't."

Mycroft, who understood the sentiment perfectly, nodded. And then he decided to share his own secret, something he'd been contemplating for long enough to know it was a good decision. Both because it would help them bond and because he almost _needed_ to talk about it.

"Gregory and I slept together as well. And showered together. And made out on the sofa like teenagers until… Well. It led where those things usually do, I suppose." Mycroft would never be the kind of person who could share every detail of his life like shameless gossip, but fortunately Sherlock could read his older brother nearly as well as Mycroft could read him. He could pick up details for himself.

"Someone moves fast. And I don't mean your cop." A quicksilver grin, and Sherlock was sitting straight up in his seat, eyes alight with curiosity.

"I can already tell that you enjoyed yourself. He must have been good. But did it… change things, between the two of you?" Sherlock looked a little anxious as he asked this, and Mycroft realized that, since he was contemplating taking that next step, he likely needed some assurance that John wouldn't suddenly change, or expect something out of Sherlock that he either couldn't give or wasn't willing to.

"It doesn't seem to have, though I suppose that, considering it was an extremely recent occurrence, I don't yet have the data to support that theory. However, when we woke up this morning and both headed to work, things were fine. Maybe even better than fine." Mycroft realized that they hadn't really talked about what it meant, and resolved to bring that up at some point. He wasn't sure how people handled things when both people in a relationship understood the natural sequence of progression, but he was almost certain that discussion was the only way to make certain both people were on the same page regardless.

"So you, er, liked it, then?" Sherlock had actually turned scarlet, a clear measure of how uncomfortable he was, and Mycroft felt himself blushing in return.

"Yes, it was quite… enjoyable. I imagine that your Dr. Watson will be… satisfactory, in that regard. Assuming you're ready." The two glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes at the same moment, then, and burst out laughing. It was the sort of awkward conversation they might have had all those years ago, and for what seemed like the first time in a very long time, they actually felt like brothers. They'd been allies in the years since those days, from time to time, but never friends, not like this.

"This is ridiculous. Grown men giggling and gossiping like teenagers. We never did act our ages even then, so this regression is rather confusing." Sherlock smiled as he sipped at his coffee, savoring the hint of whiskey and cream.

"Perhaps not. I might never have realized that I missed a great many of the experiences one is supposed to undertake in those years, but now, I understand that there are many things at which I am not adept, due to lack of practice and knowledge. It makes for an interesting partnership. Gregory is… very understanding, of my strangeness. It's uncommonly delightful, to find someone who seems to know what I'm like and like me anyway."

"You were always far more likable than I, so it makes sense that if I could find someone, you could. And I'm sure John will be equally understanding, which seems like a small miracle, when I think about it. We've both gotten rather lucky, Mycroft. I believe we're allowed to celebrate that, and perhaps could even be forgiven the practice of giggling and gossiping." Setting his mug aside and crushing out his cigarette in the ashtray sitting on the desk away from the piles of paperwork, Sherlock let himself study his brother for a moment, perfectly serious.

"You are happy, aren't you?" He asked the question softly, able to deduce joy pouring off the politician in waves but wondering if the man himself actually knew just how much it meant to him, to have someone to share his life with.

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm truly happy. Perhaps for the first time since we were children. Gregory is… extraordinary. He accepts me for who and what I am, only asks that I find room for him in my life. It's astounding; all the things that I could give him, and all he asks for in exchange for his company is that I let him take care of me. Considering I never even imagined I would find someone willing to take a paycheck to put up with me, it really is nothing short of a miracle. I feel much the way you felt, the first time your John called you his friend. That sense of wonder and delight… There really is nothing like it."

Sherlock grinned, pleased to have helped to engineer a little bit of happiness for the brother he'd always loved, no matter how antagonistic their relationship. And the fact that they could actually talk to each other again, without cutting words or calculated comments… yes, between the two of them, they'd managed to find three miracles, he realized, even as his phone buzzed, alerting him to the fact that John was on break soon and would let him come visit the office if he promised to behave. Grinning, Sherlock stood to go, but before he left, he walked over and hugged Mycroft, who'd risen when he had.

Stunned, he stood there for a moment, in awe of how his life had changed so much in such a short time. And then he hugged Sherlock back, almost crushingly, trying to convey a lifetime of caring and understanding through the gesture. And judging from the knowing look in Sherlock's eyes when he drew away, eyes which sparkled like the ocean before he practically bounded out of the room to go spend time with his doctor, Sherlock had felt every bit of that emotion, and returned it.

Sitting back down in his seat after a few seconds, Mycroft found himself smiling at the discarded cigarette butts, smashed-out mirror images, before jumping at a message that came through on his own phone.

**Can't stop thinking about you**_**. **_

It wasn't signed, but then, it didn't need to be, not from the number he knew by heart. And when he typed a reply, it came easily, needing no thought at all.

**I know. I feel the same. Come home with me tonight?** -**MH**

Mycroft wasn't a man who ever felt uncertain. He was more at home making demands than asking questions, mostly because he always knew the answers, or could find them out through more intelligent channels. However, he'd learned that diplomacy was important when it came to a relationship—Anthea was a saint as well as a relationship guru, and she was all too happy to help him with the details—and he also never wanted either of them to feel like the DI didn't have a choice. So it was a question, instead of a demand, but in the end, it would have mattered. Because half a city away, there was a silver-haired cop grinning foolishly just outside a crime scene, texting right back.

**I'll be there. Whenever you want me. But you probably already knew that.**

Chuckling softly, Mycroft set his phone aside and got back in his car, but part of his mind stayed with the cop who'd stolen his heart, and one thought kept coming right back. Knowing and believing were two different things, and not even a lifetime of deduction, of cunning and calculation, had prepared him for a day when he could actually believe in his own happiness. He would have to remember to thank Gregory for that.

Calling Anthea into his office, he made a few quick requests of her, then watched her fingers fly as she began typing rapidly. He was still smiling when he finished paperwork three hours later, with a cramped, ink-smeared hand and prepared to go to a place he, for the first time, thought of as home.


	13. Words

**A/N: To all the darling readers who asked for sexy times- ask, and ye shall receive. In true Sherlock fashion, of course. I'm delighted by the kind words from those of you who have stuck with this, and I hope this chapter makes you just as happy as reading your words made me. **

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He was still taking purposefully deep breaths when he heard the door click open downstairs, trying to keep his heart from tap-dancing its way right out of his chest, as it seemed to be trying to do. Cursing lightly under his breath, he didn't notice when John called out to him, too busy trying to bury himself in his mind palace so that he could calm himself down.

There was no need to travel too far. He went back just to that afternoon, when he'd arrived at John's office and found him sitting behind his desk, absentmindedly staring at a sandwich he had little interest in actually eating after the colorful display his last patient had left all over the floor, and the janitors had only cleared away a handful of minutes before.

All of that had melted away when he'd heard the door squeak, and he'd looked up at Sherlock, frown transforming all at once into the most radiant smile he thought he'd ever seen. Normally, Sherlock wasn't a fan of public displays of affection, and the only times he'd ever really gone _to_ John, rather than the other way around, were when his help was urgently needed on a case. But there had been no case prompting him to go then, just a desire to see his blogger, and the fact that John understood what it meant about how he felt about him… if there was anyone he could ever fall in love with, it was John. Hell, he already _was_ in love with him.

That was the thought that had stopped him in his tracks for a fraction of a second, something his doctor hadn't even noticed. Then he'd stepped inside smoothly and closed the door, walking over and leaning down to press a kiss to his mouth just because he could. John relaxed into the contact immediately, as if he'd been craving it all day, and Sherlock wished he understood the unspoken rules better. Was he supposed to have kissed him goodbye that morning? He hadn't even realized when John had left, honestly, too caught up in reviewing the minutiae of the night before.

But John was smiling at him, and there were no shadows in his blue eyes suggesting he was in any way displeased with Sherlock's behavior. Still finding it hard to believe he'd gotten so incredibly lucky, Sherlock perched on the one empty corner of John's desk, crossing his long legs in front of him. He couldn't help noting the way John's eyes followed that particular moment, gaze tracing up his legs with a caress so intense it felt physical, before moving back up to his face.

"Hey. I've got half an hour, and no inclination to eat. Want to go for a walk?" John rose, for once just as tall as his partner, and walked around the desk, stopping at Sherlock's side. But instead of making a move that would indicate that "walk" meant something very different than the classical definition, he simply waited for Sherlock to respond.

"Yes. That sounds… fine." Jerking upward suddenly, he paused for a moment then grabbed John's hand, almost sighing at the contact. He may have had no idea what he was doing, but he knew what he wanted. John Watson, forever and always, in his arms or holding him or smiling at him with those lips and those eyes…

Yes, Sherlock knew, as always, what it was he wanted, but was so nervous to go for. He knew John was interested, which was a startling but pleasant revelation that had taken a couple of solid hours of thought that morning. It was what had been distracting him, he was fairly certain, when John was leaving for work. He'd woken with a morning erection, kissed Sherlock on the neck with a casual affection that finished stealing his breath, and then stumbled off to the bathroom to deal with it himself after one very quick, wistful glance at Sherlock.

An unconscious erection was one thing, but John actually _wanted_ him. It was something he'd never experienced before, in all honesty. Sure, there were people who'd lusted after him, though usually not with such open, guileless appreciation, but never before could he have imagined _cuddling_ with any of those people, because their desire usually left the second he opened his mouth. And, in the rare cases it didn't, it was almost always someone whose affections he knew he could never truly return, like Irene and Molly.

There'd never been anyone like John before, and he doubted there ever would be. And he knew what he wanted to do, both because his own body was on fire for the first time in his life and because he wanted his doctor to know exactly what it was he did to him. He wanted John to feel how loved he was, how much Sherlock adored him.

But since work obviously wasn't the place for such a display—though that desk might be fun another time, certainly—they went for their walk, and Sherlock enjoyed playing the role of the gentleman for once, actually holding doors for John and staying slow instead of moving along at his usual breakneck speeds.

When he dropped him off at work, there was even another quick kiss, this one outside the building because Lestrade had texted him about a case, before running off to catch a taxi. He heard John's laughter behind him and…

And the flashback ended as a concerned-looking John appeared in the doorway, eyes going wide at the sight of Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed, hands curled nervously around the edge of the mattress, eyes somewhere between confident and worried.

"Sherlock? What on earth are you doing up here?" Head tilted at a frankly adorable angle, John approached him and stood in front of him, and Sherlock realized they were once again at more comparable heights, though John was actually slightly taller this time. _Perfect; he'll enjoy that, and it'll make it clear what part I'd like to play in this… exchange. At least until I learn the ropes._

Instead of explaining with words, the genius decided to show him. Reaching up, he tangled his fingers in the short silver-blond strands of John's hair and brought him forward for a careful kiss. He lost his train of thought when John kissed him back in earnest, the kiss spiraling quickly out of control. It felt as if fire was dancing over his skin, and when John's tongue darted out and stroked over his lips, he knew it was a good thing his eyes had already fluttered shut. Otherwise, he was sure they'd have rolled back in his head in pleasure, and he wasn't sure if that was sexy or not.

John moved closer now, and Sherlock instinctively spread his legs wider, eyes flicking open with surprise when it brought them into intimate contact. He felt a tremor go through him, and John, who'd clearly felt him stiffen where his hands lay on his shoulders, opened his own eyes and pulled back a little, concern written on his face.

"Sherlock, we don't have to do this if you're not ready. We've only been… well, I can't say I haven't thought about this, but we really haven't been on more than one date, shared a couple of kisses, and something tells me that you're not the type of person who could hop casually into bed with anyone. We don't have to do this right now."

Biting his lip, Sherlock considered John's words. But he knew that he would never get less nervous about the whole thing. It could still go badly, and John could still wind up hating him… but it could also be the best thing in his life, offer him the sort of passion he'd never imagined possible for himself, and he knew, somehow, that he'd waited his entire life for _this_ man, this unassuming man with quick smiles and sparkling eyes who could save lives and take them with equal precision. And he knew, too, that he would regret every moment he didn't spend showing him that if he didn't have him, right then.

In the end, it was a simple choice. John must have sensed that, because his eyes went smoldering when Sherlock lay back on the bed, a simple gesture of trust and surrender that both belied and enhanced the fire in his eyes and the almost visible thrumming of his pulse beneath his skin.

John moved on top of him, but instead of grinding down against him or doing any of the things Sherlock half-expected from his research, he kissed him instead. Hovered there above him, one hand on either side of his head while he straddled his hips, and just made lip-to-lip contact. It was maddeningly pleasurable, and Sherlock froze the moment in his mind, something he knew he'd return to again and again.

But time itself didn't freeze, and soon, not even John had the patience to keep so little contact. Sherlock had practically begged him to take him to bed, and he had already promised himself that if that ever happened, he would do a damn good job. His background as Three-Continents Watson gave him a good start, but this was Sherlock. He required not only extra care, but extra thought, so that it wasn't boring, vanilla sex that he could have learned about anywhere.

There would be time to passionately tear his clothes off and go at it as quickly as was safe, but today, John unbuttoned his shirt just enough to bare his neck, bent down and pressed his lips to that pale skin… and then bit down, earning a strangled cry before he began to suck a mark onto the younger man's neck.

Sherlock gasped, then moaned, his hands coming up of their own accord to stroke up and down John's back… until he sat back on his knees, grabbed Sherlock's wrists, and pinned them to the pillow, watching those ocean eyes go dark and stormy with a powerful surge of lust. _Definitely liked that, then. Thank God. I'd love to tie him up…_

"Keep your hands there, or I'll have to tie them down, love. I know that soon enough you'll be taking over, but if you want this tonight, I'm in charge, and I'm going to show you every trick in my book." Sherlock could only nod at this, already feeling breathless in the best way even before John bent to nibble at the already forming bruise on his neck, until Sherlock was squirming beneath him wantonly. With his hands covering those pale, thin wrists, he could feel his pulse, and it was already wild. And experimental swirl of his hips downward shot it up even higher, and a glance told him that Sherlock was long gone into the pleasure already.

With flushed skin and pupils blown wide, he was without doubt the most delicious thing John had ever seen in his life. And with a wicked grin, he set to devouring him.

Sherlock could only hold on for dear life while John ravaged him, hands and mouth everywhere all at once, everywhere but where he wanted them most. He bit the pillow to keep from screaming when John finally tugged down his trousers and pants all in one go, took him deep into his mouth without preamble. He did scream when John swallowed around him, nearly whiting out when the most intense pleasure he'd ever felt in his life shot through him. In that moment, he couldn't even think that it was impolite to not warn John in advance, that his research had told him that swallowing wasn't something everyone, or even most people, liked to do.

But when John licked his lips and moved up to claim another kiss, with the taste of Sherlock on his tongue, any half-formed idea of apologizing flew out the window. And when one deft finger slipped inside him, slicked up though he didn't actually recall seeing or hearing lube, any last few brain cells that were functioning were swept away by the electric pleasure.

John was thorough, touching him in all the right ways and places until he was trembling with need again, despite having had the edge taken off. It occurred to him somewhere between John withdrawing his fingers and slicking himself up that he should probably be embarrassed, being so close to the edge that he feared he might come a second time before John had even found his pleasure, but then John looked at him and smiled, shaking his head gently.

"Tonight's about you, my love, you and your courage to face down your fears and come to my bed anyway. Let me take care of you; you don't need to think, here, with me. Just relax for me."

And then he was slipping inside him, a burn so pleasurable it made Sherlock throw his head back and moan, hands groping blindly for the bars of the headboard so he could at least try to obey John's command from earlier. After giving him a few seconds to adjust, the doctor began moving, his thrusts deep and steady as if he had all the time in the world, and the pressure built and built until Sherlock was climaxing once again, crying out in wonder and ecstasy, arching off the bed and tightening around John, who'd already been close enough to the edge that that alone sent him flying over.

It took several minutes for John to find the will power to move, and even then, after easing gently out of Sherlock to the melody of a quiet whimper, it was only to get a damp cloth from the bathroom and wipe them off before collapsing next to his new lover and smiling at the ceiling.

"You called me your love." Sherlock's voice was unexpectedly small, and John sobered abruptly, turning to look at the genius warily. Was it too soon for him? He barely remembered a day when he _didn't_ love the brash, brilliant man beside him, but that was no guarantee that the words were welcome. John knew how hard it had been for Sherlock to come to him like this, to cast away his fears and let himself go… had he pushed too far?

"Er, sorry. I… I wish I could say that it's just something I say in bed, but it isn't. Not with anyone else." John flopped back against the pillows and closed his eyes, wondering if the dark now obscuring his vision could possibly oblige him by turning into a black hole and sucking him inside. It had been the most beautiful afternoon of his entire life, and then he'd gone and cocked it up.

Except that Sherlock was suddenly kissing him, with the sort of sloppy enthusiasm John would never have expected from someone so precise and controlled. And those eyes… they shimmered with a thousand emotions, the most prevalent of which were joy, relief… and love.

"You mean that?" Sherlock looked incredibly vulnerable in that moment, as if the wrong word might break him forever, and John didn't even have to think about his answer, which had always been true.

"Yeah, Sherlock. I mean it."

"I…" Sherlock started to speak, then shook his head and kissed John again, finding his hand and grasping it tightly, conveying in that simple gesture all the things he'd ever been too afraid to express in words.

"John… I am quite certain that I… return your affection." Blushing, the genius finally choked out a sentence, before promptly burying his face against John's neck, earning a small chuckle. When a talented hand began carding through his hair, he all but purred, pushing up against the contact.

"Thank you, Sherlock. For being you." Instead of offering up words, for once, Sherlock simply smiled against John's skin, holding him a little tighter.


	14. Action

**A/N: More lovely reviews, and I can't say how much joy I get every time I read what one of you has to say about this story. I wonder if any of you would like to help me choose which of the projects I'm working on should get priority and be posted first? There are two choices currently, both Johnlock, and I'm going to be accepting votes from now until I post the last chapter as to which you would most like to see next. **

**If one of these catches your fancy, drop a vote- either through message or review, that's up to you- and whichever has the most votes by the time I'm ready to move on to another story will be the next work I focus on. Thanks, and enjoy!**

**1) John is a distraction for Sherlock, but one he can't imagine living without, so he decides to seduce his _"straight" _best friend on the theory that John is the only person who might ever love him romantically. Enlisting a bit of help, he begins his campaign, but John realizes part of what's going on, and decides that two can play at that game. Both try to make the other fall in love, but are afraid of investing their own feelings. Who will be the first to succumb to the pressure- and pleasure- of this very different kind of game?**

**2) When John discovers Sherlock is planning to seek physical companionship, so that he can learn how to capture the heart of the mystery man he has a crush on, he volunteers himself for the task, wanting to experience what it would be like to be with the genius so he can at least have the memories, if not the man himself. Little does he know that _he_ is the only man Sherlock wants to be with in any romantic context, and as Sherlock's guilt grows, he'll have to choose between being honest and protecting himself as he always has...**

**Now that that's out of the way... On with the story!**

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When Greg arrived at Mycroft's house, he was tired but satisfied with his days' work. With a little help from Sherlock, they'd managed to catch the killer—the gardener of all people, dissatisfied with her wages—and track her down. Some paperwork and another conversation with his sergeant about proper protocol in regards to consultants and he was free from the office, at least for the night. So he had a small smile on his face, even before he stepped through the door… and saw a trail of red rose petals leading toward the bedroom.

Charmed and a little amused, Greg followed the trail but made sure to avoid the petals, leaving them pristine on the off chance Mycroft wanted to press them into a book or make them into potpourri or something. His politician was eccentric like that, in the best way. After all, only Mycroft, out of all the people of his acquaintance, would employ something as old-fashioned, expensive, and indulgent as a trail of flower petals in order to invite his lover to bed.

And when he finally made it to the bedroom, he found another surprise. Mycroft was dressed in silk trousers and a dressing gown, and there was a tray with wine and a small variety of cheese, chocolate, and fruit sitting in the middle of the bed beside him. He looked up when Greg appeared in the doorway, a small smile on his face even as he put his phone face down on his nightstand and gestured for the cop to come inside.

"What's all this, then?" Seeing no reason to resist such a classy summons, Greg took a seat, stealing a kiss before dipping one of the strawberries into the soft, warm chocolate. Instead of lifting it to his own mouth, he brought it to Mycroft's instead, painting his lips before they parted to take a bite. And then, because he looked so good with chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth, Greg had another taste of his lips.

"I thought you might like a touch of romance. It occurred to me that, even though we are by no means a traditional couple, there are some things about traditional courtships which are… interesting enough to try."

As a cop, Greg was more than smart enough to know that there was more to it. Mycroft had clearly been intrigued by the idea, and the way he looked just a touch shy suggested that there was another reason even aside from that. It wasn't hard to figure out what it was, considering the way their last date had gone. Still, there was no good reason to call him out on it, and it was really kind of sweet, wanting to make up for altering their plans.

"I could definitely learn to like this." Greg ate a chocolate-covered strawberry, then paused. "Though it's not about the opulence of it. I think it's just nice that you care enough to take care of me a little, even though you know I can generally take care of myself. My ex-wife… she assumed it was my job to always be the one doing things for her, rather than any sort of give-and-take. But you? You've got class, Mycroft Holmes."

Dozens of people had said as much to him over the course of his life, but never in that particular context, and never with that sexy little smile that managed to turn him inside out. He couldn't ever remember being so happy about a compliment—unless it was one of the other hundred little things Greg liked to sprinkle into their conversations—and he realized he was in danger of doing something he'd never thought himself capable of.

Almost absently, he leaned over and kissed away the smear of chocolate that had inexplicably found its way onto Greg's cheek, the feel of his tongue rasping over Greg's five o'clock shadow an oddly sensual sensation. The contrast of sensitive against rough… it did certainly put ideas in his head. But even then, his mind was able to follow many tracks at once, and he continued to think hard about what he was feeling.

He could, very easily, be falling in love with Gregory Lestrade. It wasn't that the idea was a repulsive one, or that he thought it was a bad idea—quite the opposite—but that he'd never seen himself as the kind of man who could love in that way. He'd always been dedicated to the two driving forces of his life, work and Sherlock, with such intensity that there'd simply been no room for anything else. That was why caring wasn't an advantage. It could compromise him, make him forget or ignore things that were important… but it could also make him incredibly happy, as he'd been discovering lately.

As much as love was an emotion, it was also a choice. Before, Mycroft had denied himself even the opportunity. Even now, there was a part of him, a part that feared loss and pain, that whispered that he needed to walk away before he got hurt. But he knew he wasn't going anywhere. If he was going to fall in love, this was the man to fall for. And Mycroft was so, so very tired of being alone, and of denying himself a reason to fall asleep and wake up with a smile.

He was distracted from his musings when Greg took the opportunity of his distraction to set the tray of food aside, take a last swig of wine—a gesture that would have made Mycroft wince if he'd been fully paying attention—and set everything over on the nightstand on his side of the bed. And then he leaned forward and started kissing Mycroft, bringing the full force of that incredible mind back to the surface rapidly.

They fell into each other softly as a sigh, and instead of the rough urgency that had characterized their first encounter, this time they were gentle with each other. Light, teasing strokes over bare skin in places that shouldn't have been erotic led to Greg's shirt and Mycroft's dressing gown slipping soundlessly to the floor, and then they paused to explore this newly uncovered territory with hands and lips until they were both trembling a little.

This time, it was Greg who found himself on the bottom, but he didn't mind at all when Mycroft kissed him, that shy little smile on his lips, and started to rock against him as if they had all the time in the world. Still, there was only so much either of them could take, and eventually even Mycroft was shedding the last of his clothes with urgency before they were moving together, hands linked and holding tight as, together, they found oblivion.

Lying there in the dark, curled up with the softly snoring cop, Mycroft was wide awake, his mind sorting rapidly through information and coming up with only one conclusion. He didn't know how it had happened, or how it had escaped his notice, but while he'd been coming to the realization that he _could_ fall in love, he'd already tumbled right into it, without his conscious permission.

Was this what he'd wanted? Entangling himself with anyone was a risk, and Greg's job was dangerous. He could be shot, or stabbed, or have any number of things happen to him while on duty, and Mycroft couldn't do anything to stop it. He was also more vulnerable, with his strange work hours and unusual schedule, to anyone who wanted to try to take him and use him against Mycroft.

And there was no price he wouldn't pay, he realized, to keep Greg safe. No monetary value, at least. Somehow, his priorities had shifted, and now there were two people in his life who ranked as most important.

He would have to make sure that a security detail stuck close to his policeman, but they wouldn't be able to do his job for him, and the job was still dangerous. And yet… it never seriously crossed his mind to request that Greg resign his position. The truth was, part of why he loved him was his ability to run headlong into danger where others ran away, to seek justice even when it was difficult or dangerous because he honestly believed no one should be left alone in the dark or forgotten. He was a truly admirable man, and his profession was just another expression of that.

So Mycroft wouldn't ask him to change. No, he loved him, exactly as he was, and that was a remarkable thing. Even more remarkable was that Greg seemed to care for him quite a lot, too. He'd always secretly believed that he was unlovable, and that was one of the reasons he'd pretended to have no emotions. That so many of his adversaries were given to making mistakes due to letting their emotions run away with them had only cemented his resolve, until he'd almost believed that he was part machine, as John had accused his brother of being long ago.

The only thing that had really tethered him to the part of himself he'd nearly eliminated had been his love for his brother… and the curious spark he'd felt whenever he'd seen the odd cop who'd never given up on Sherlock, even when he'd all but given up on himself.

There was only one thing to do, then, no matter how fast it seemed like he was moving. Content with his decision, Mycroft closed his eyes, and commanded his brain to sleep.

When Greg woke up, there was a note on the pillow beside him, rather than a wonderfully kissable politician. He was a little sad, but couldn't help smiling anyway, that Mycroft had thought to leave him anything at all.

The note was simple, suggesting he feel free to help himself to breakfast and linger however long he wanted, but it was the closing that had him grinning and falling back onto his pillow.

_Yours,_ it was signed, and didn't that just put all sorts of ideas into Greg's head. But it also felt incredibly right, and that made him start to wonder… but no. It was far too soon to be thinking about that… wasn't it?

Pulling on trousers, Greg headed to the kitchen and made himself a fry-up while he contemplated the idea that was swirling in his mind. While it would be far too soon for most people to be contemplating the next step in a relationship, neither Mycroft nor Greg were casual men. Therefore, neither of them considered their relationship a casual thing. For Mycroft to allow him into his life in any capacity, let alone trusting him to stay in his home, alone, where he kept any number of state secrets… it meant something. Greg just wasn't sure how far that went.

He knew how far he wanted it to go, of course. He just wasn't sure what Mycroft would have to say about that. Was marriage something he might be interested in? With his job, he might easily consider a clear emotional attachment a liability… but he also liked putting his mark on things that he considered his. How did that translate to a relationship with another human?

Greg actually started cursing when he realized that there was only one human being on the planet, besides Mycroft himself, who could actually give him those answers. No matter how well he knew his lover, there was one person who would always know him just a little bit better. _His brother_. The most annoying pain in the arse ever… and also, someone who genuinely cared about Mycroft and probably wanted him to be happy, regardless of how their relationship had been strained in the past.

It was with a nearly painful sigh that Greg pulled his phone out of his pocket—smiled, because some time in the middle of the night Mycroft must have made sure it was charged—and dialed John.

"Hey, John, do you think I could have a talk with you and Sherlock this afternoon? It's not case related, but it is something I need his help for. And yours, I think." When they hung up, Greg thanked his lucky stars for best mates and their consulting-twelve-year-old boyfriends and then headed back to Mycroft's room to find some clothes he could wear to get back to his own flat and get changed.

He was somehow unsurprised to find a section of the closet was dedicated to clothes that were exact doppelgangers of his own, even down to his preferred brand of socks in the dresser. The only small change, one that he didn't mind at all, was that Mycroft had procured silk pants for him instead of the cotton he usually wore. It was a surprisingly sensual thing for a man who'd once pretended to scorn emotion to do, and it only added to Greg's resolve.

He'd always been a man of action, like most coppers, and as long as Sherlock thought Mycroft wouldn't completely hate the idea, he was going to take a very definite step toward assuring the politician would never leave his side.


	15. Claim

**A/N: Okay, guys, we've currently got a tie as to what my next piece should be, so if any of you are interested in letting me know what you want to see next, check the notes from chapter 14 and send me a vote! Also, I hope you like this chapter!**

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To John's surprise, Sherlock hadn't even grumbled when he informed the younger man that they were going to be meeting up with Greg at the pub later to talk about something. That may, of course, have been due to the fact that he'd only just woken up, and they'd made love lazily again before the announcement.

John was grateful he had that day off, because when Sherlock had come to him the night before and offered himself up, he'd known there would be no leaving the bed for a while. Almost as if he'd feared that Sherlock would come to his senses if he were permitted out of the bedroom, he'd even gone so far as to sneak downstairs while he was sleeping and make a fry-up for him, which they were currently indulging in now, sitting naked in bed and talking.

"What do you think Greg wants to talk about? It sounds like he and your brother are getting pretty serious whenever we talk about them, so I doubt he's planning to break it off or whatever."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he were planning a proposal, actually." Sherlock shrugged when John gasped, leaning over absently to wipe a crumb away from the corner of his mouth. It was a strange sort of intimacy, but one John savored almost every bit as much as their much more physical displays of affection of the night before… and that morning.

"D'you really think so?" Surprised, John set his fork aside and watched Sherlock stretch, thoughts fleeing temporarily at the sight of those long, graceful limbs extending fully, his muscles sliding smoothly beneath his skin and making him look oddly feline. When Sherlock noticed his scrutiny, he blushed a little, hands playing a little nervously with the edge of the blanket that lay across his lap.

"When you look at me like that, it makes me think you wish to devour me. And yes, I really do think so. They've been attracted to each other for quite some time, even before they admitted it to themselves, and neither of them really knows how to be casual when it comes to matters of the heart. Of course, he's in for quite the surprise, because if I read Mycroft correctly, he is also likely to be attempting to propose soon. I simply wonder which of them will get there first."

"I _do_ want to devour you, love, but that's a different story entirely." John paused, watching that flush increase, and felt himself smiling wickedly. Sherlock was delightfully fun to tease, when he felt like he could let his guard down. He would never attempt to flirt with him like this at a crime scene, or likely even in public, but here in their own private domain… it was good for both of them. "Do you think it's a good idea? For them to rush into things?"

Sherlock pursed his lips ever so slightly, clearly thinking hard.

"I don't think it actually is rushing things, as far as they're concerned. Neither of them exactly lives a safe life, and every second they can get together is incalculably precious to both of them. It would make sense to desire a union which would make it socially acceptable for them to cohabitate permanently, and offer them a claim on each other to soothe their fears when they are separated."

"You make marriage sound like something people do to justify themselves to other people." John wrinkled his nose as he spoke, and Sherlock tilted his head slightly, studying his… lover. Yes, that was the right term, and felt good to use, even in his head. Perhaps _that_ was another reason people enjoyed claiming each other.

"Is it not?" The words were out before Sherlock could really think about them, so he could only be grateful when John laughed instead of being hurt or offended.

"I suppose for some people it is. That's probably one of the reasons there's so much controversy around who has the right to get married. But no, I think for people who are actually in it for the right reasons, it's mostly just a way of sharing their joy with the world, and making it clear to each other that the commitment is one you intend to have last. It's a way of showing someone that they mean more to you than anyone else, puts them in a special place in your world."

Sherlock was quiet for a while, then bit his lip.

"Is marriage something you want now that we're together, then?" The words were so mumbled and rushed together that it took John a few moments to figure out what he said, but when he did, he started laughing again, even though he knew Sherlock was being completely serious.

"Sherlock… no, at least, not right away. Things are a bit different with us, I'll grant you that, but it's not as if marriage would provide us more opportunities to spend time together, like it will for Mycroft and Greg. We already live together, and people thought we were a couple anyway, so they won't be surprised. But Mycroft's government position means it's more… dignified, I suppose is the word, if they're legally married. And if they're both ready to take the next step, there's no reason they shouldn't. It doesn't mean you and I need to be in any rush, though."

"Are you certain about that?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm sure." Sherlock still didn't seem convinced, and John wasn't sure how to fix that, so he decided to think about it for a while. He kissed Sherlock, then went up to his room to go get dressed.

"Thanks for coming, mates. I'm grateful for the help." Greg, who'd arrived early, already had a pint set up for each of them. Sherlock curled his lip at his in distaste, but John was happy enough to accept free beer, and happy to help, so he simply slid Sherlock's pint in front of himself and smiled at Greg.

"Of course, Greg. Now, what's up?" John was almost certain that Sherlock had been right earlier, but it was best to get confirmation before offering up unsolicited advice. And if Sherlock _was _right, it was probably the consulting detective he really wanted help from anyway. John was just serving as his handler, a role he was used to.

"Well, I had a thought this morning, and I guess what I need to know… D'you think Mycroft would object, if I asked him to marry me? I know it might put him in a bad position, if someone decided I was a weakness or something, but I guess… I'm traditional enough that I don't just want to live with him. I know it probably sound silly to you Sherlock, but I want to claim your brother in whatever way he'll have me. I know we've only been together a comparatively short while, but I feel really strongly about this, and I just… do you think he'd say yes?"

Sherlock had, at first, had trouble believing that Mycroft could ever let _anyone_ in deep enough to see who he really was, but he could tell, from the passion in Greg's voice, that he really believed himself in love with Mycroft. And that was very interesting, and very nice. His brother deserved someone who cared every bit as much as he did, and didn't let him hide.

He was nearly certain Mycroft would say yes, as he was pretty sure Mycroft was actually out at that very moment shopping for rings in between quelling international conflicts, but it provided an interesting opportunity to make sure Lestrade actually knew what he was getting into.

"Have you two clearly expressed your feelings in any way, as of yet?" He knew, from his conversation with his brother the day before, that they hadn't, but that Mycroft only hadn't said the words because he hadn't quite come to the conclusion that he would mean them, when they did come out. It would be interesting to hear if that had changed.

"I… No. I know I love him though Sherlock, and what's more, I'm _in_ love with him. And if you don't know the difference, it's… everything about him fascinates me and charms me and frustrates me, but in the best way. There are times when I hate our jobs, because they take us away from each other, but it's the best feeling in the world when we're in each other's arms, like it's exactly where we're meant to be, and I want that every day, or at least every day it's possible, for the rest of my life. And _that's_ why I think people should get married."

Sherlock remained outwardly impassive, even though inside, he was incredibly grateful that this man had chosen his brother to fall in love with. No matter how many years they'd spent antagonizing each other, Sherlock wanted Mycroft to be happy, and knew he could only be happy with a partner who was as dedicated as he was. It was pretty clear Greg fulfilled that requirement, and suddenly, Sherlock could see the two of them, almost sickeningly in love, growing old and finally retiring and living their last years out someplace sunny and beautiful, but always returning now and then to this city, smiling and holding hands, just as happy with each other as they were in that moment.

And that was exactly how he felt about John, he realized. He'd thought, earlier, that the churning in his gut when the subject of marriage came up was nervousness and fear, but he'd been wrong. _That_ was something to think about—would John really want him for forever?—but he'd have to do it later. Greg was still waiting for some sort of response, judging by the look on his face.

"I believe that my brother might be as… romantically inclined as you are. However, if you plan to propose, I advise you do it within a day or two, as he is likely to be called away from the country shortly to deal with a brewing situation caused by those idiotic Americans. I will help you procure the proper ring today, if you like." John, who'd just finished his own pint and started on Sherlock's, felt a huge grin forming at the hint of a smile in Sherlock's voice. Also very nice was that he was giving Greg a chance to beat Mycroft to the punch, when it was very difficult to beat a Holmes at _anything_.

"That'd be grand, Sherlock. I… thank you." Blinking at the obvious gratitude and happiness in Greg's voice, Sherlock could only nod and rise, tossing some money on the table. He ignored John and Greg's protests that that action, considering he could more than easily afford it and considered it his own little thank you to the cop for rescuing his brother from loneliness, and then swept out, barely waiting for the other two to catch up to him and join him in the taxi before directing it to a reasonably priced but still upscale store that would provide, at very least, adequate choices.

"That was really nice of you to do for Greg, Sherlock. I was impressed by the way you were today, not that you aren't usually impressive, but it was… different, for you. And really nice."

Sherlock smiled at John, but his mind was still a little chaotic from their conversation earlier, and John seemed to sense that, because when Sherlock sat down on the sofa, he came up behind him and started massaging his shoulders in a very relaxing way. Nearly purring, Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself enjoy those warm, strong hands kneading at his muscles.

"There isn't a day that goes by when I'm not amazed by you, you know. I mean, anyone can see that you're gorgeous, and brilliant, but I think it's that huge heart of yours that I really fell for. You don't like to let people know just how much you really care, but I like that you don't try to hide it from me anymore. Except that time you decided to be an idiot and didn't just tell me what was going on, at least."

Both of them were still uncomfortable addressing the circumstances of Moriarty's demise and Sherlock's return, and they hadn't talked about the years that had come between. But John had a feeling that someday, they would revisit those days, and learn what each other had been through. He just wasn't quite ready to get into it that night.

"If I care, it's because you've given me the confidence to do so. You may be unaware of this, John, but you were my first friend. First _real_ friend, at the very least, who wasn't simply using me as a convenience. The way you are is… inspiring, so if I am inspired, it's because of your influence."

Since those words were a very Sherlockian way of saying "I love you," John couldn't resist tilting Sherlock's head back to kiss him, and then of course, neither of them wanted it to stop, so they never did get back to the conversation, or revisit the one from earlier, at least not that night. But just before falling asleep, John started to wonder what it would be like to publically claim Sherlock the way Greg was about to claim Mycroft. And if, in dreams, they were dressed in tuxedos and standing at the altar, he would tell himself in the morning that it was just his imagination running away with him.


	16. Together

**A/N: I promise, I swear on my OTP, that I did not forget about this story, or any of you lovely people who are still reading. It has been an exceptionally busy week, and though this story is drawing closer to the end, and I'm sure you'd like me to just get there already, real life doesn't care all that much. But I promise that I am not going back on hiatus. Aaaaaanyway... This chapter has a good chance of earning me forgiveness, considering it contains some moments a lot of you have been asking for. Please forgive me, and enjoy the chapter!**

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In the end, Greg hadn't had a chance to propose, as Mycroft had informed him, almost as soon as he walked through the door, that he was needed to deal with a very urgent situation in Japan, and that he had to catch a plane in a little over an hour. There was time for one long kiss goodbye, and then he'd been gone, off to parts unknown and unable to stay in touch for over a week.

When he did get home, it was late Thursday evening, and he'd texted Greg, so he already knew he'd be at his flat. He did not expect, however, to walk in and find his lover and his brother sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, both looking surprisingly sober. For a moment, he was concerned something terrible had happened, perhaps to John, but no reports had reached him through Anthea, and neither looked distraught.

"Might I ask what's going on? I was not expecting you tonight, Sherlock, though I must admit I am glad to see you." It took only a moment to see that the reason for Sherlock's visit wasn't anything casual, as he looked confused, but Mycroft wasn't sure if he was invited to the conversation or not. He was back a couple of hours earlier than expected, after all; Sherlock could have needed to talk to Greg and been unwilling to do so over the phone.

"Come have a seat, Mycroft. Sherlock wanted to talk to both of us, I think. Not completely sure on that point, mind, but I don't think he'd have come here if it weren't the case." Greg casually took Mycroft's hand when he sat beside him at the bar across from Sherlock, but instead of kissing him in welcome, he turned his attention back to the younger genius, if only because he looked so distressed. And if he wanted a bit more private moment with his lover to properly greet him, that was his prerogative.

"So what's going on, mate?" Greg wasn't a Holmes, but he was well aware that Sherlock had been jumpy for… well, since the three of them had gone out to get the ring for Mycroft. Did Sherlock not want them to get married, now? He truly hoped that wasn't the reason, but couldn't help being a little fearful.

"I'm considering proposing to John." The words were strained, as if it took all his will power to choke them out, and Greg sighed in relief, earning a curious look from Mycroft before he turned his gaze back to his little brother. He knew he'd have to explain later, but Mycroft was very good about letting him have his privacy, and share things in his own time, and if the payment for that respect was honesty, it was something he'd happily give.

"So why, I wonder, do you look as if you're about to face a family meal with Great-Aunt Geraldine? It's quite obvious that you are enamored with your doctor. Should you not be excited about the prospect?"

"I… We discussed it, last week, after dealing with a particular case that involved a proposal. He mentioned that it was a step he had no plans of approaching as of yet, if ever, and though I've never personally put much stock in the institution, I… John thinks quite highly of it. I'm not certain, however, how he actually feels about it in reference to me. But I do not care for people lightly. I think I would like to make it clear, both to him and to the world, that he is what I want. I'm just not sure if he would appreciate that particular thought."

Greg almost burst out laughing. He, known John almost as long as Sherlock had, but the genius had been blind for so long, that even the revelation that John cared about him seemed to have stunned him. There was very little doubt in the cop's mind that John would take Sherlock however he could have him, and that he would be thrilled with the idea of actually making those sorts of declarations, but Sherlock was clearly very uncertain of that.

Holding his tongue, he decided to let Mycroft answer instead. Not only did he have more insight when it came to his brother, but it would be a good way to gauge how the elder Holmes felt about marriage as well.

Mycroft was stunned. With the ring he'd bought for his own lover burning a hole in his pocket, a simple French inscription on the inside of the band, he knew his brother couldn't have failed to notice it. However, instead of gloating about that knowledge, or making insinuations that would go over Greg's head in an effort to irritate his brother, he was simply waiting for an opinion, which was very telling of his mental state.

"Sherlock… It's been many years since I've known you to show much regard for any living person, and yet with your Doctor Watson, it was seemingly instinctive for you to immediately choose him as a companion and friend. The two of you have a relationship which is utterly unique, and personally, I feel that we have little enough time on this earth in which to show those we love how we feel. Rarely in life does anyone find someone with whom they truly belong, and by some circumstance of fate, it seems you've both found that person. As such, you might already have guessed my opinion: I feel you should, as the Americans would say, 'put a ring on it.'"

Greg wasn't sure what had stunned him more—the words Mycroft had used, or the sentiment behind them. He'd clearly come quite a long way, in regards to romance, but Greg had still been half afraid he would be scornful of the idea of marriage. Now, at least, he could breathe a little easier, knowing he wasn't against the institution. The only question remaining was how strong he considered _their_ bond.

Sherlock nodded, accepting his words, his mind buzzing with a thousand ideas and their consequences as he tried to figure out the best way to handle the situation. After a few minutes of silence, he stood up and left the flat without a word, even forgetting to close the door. When Mycroft stood and did it for him, it was with a barely-there smile on his face, one that said a million things.

"That was interesting." Greg found that he was smiling a little, too. It was so out of the ordinary for Sherlock to second guess himself at all, but it was also sweet. Greg knew that he and John would be good to, and for, each other. And it was actually nice to know he was insecure about asking John for marriage, because that indicated that it _meant_ something to him, and wasn't just something he was doing for John's benefit. Yes, they would be good together.

"It certainly was. I never would have seen Sherlock as the type to even consider marriage, and yet… the idea suits who they are together well, doesn't it? Bonds like that are why people _should_ tie themselves together."

"You think so?" Mycroft had returned to Greg's side, and then moved even closer, and the cop found himself on the receiving end of a slow, deep, scorching kiss that ended with his legs wrapped around his lover's waist, their bodies pressed tightly together.

"Yeah. D'you know what else I think? These stools are just about the perfect height for this sort of thing." Mycroft stared at him for a moment, then started laughing, extricating himself before Lestrade could realize there was a small box with sharp corners poking against his thigh.

"You are quite right of course, my dear. Perhaps we shall test that out, another night. Tonight, however, I had something different in mind. I took the liberty of ordering in, so our meal shall be here any moment; I do not know how you feel about being publicly compromised, but it is one of the few things I think I would not be willing to try for you."

Greg really couldn't argue with that, and was grateful for Mycroft's clear-headedness when, just at that moment, the buzzer alerted them to a presence outside the flat. Mycroft checked his phone and then opened the door, revealing Anthea, with two men dressed in suits behind her carrying a silver tray each. Greg had a feeling they were real silver.

"Right in here, gentlemen. Yes, on the table is fine." It was only then that Greg realized it was already set with a white tablecloth and two very ornate chairs, and was in fact a different table than the one which normally sat there. Intrigued, he raised one eyebrow as the two serving men left wordlessly, followed by Anthea, after a single, knowing smile at her boss.

"What's all this, then?" Mycroft offered him another enigmatic grin but said nothing, merely removing the cloche covers and revealing a meal identical to the one they'd shared on their first date. Although Greg knew it had been a comparatively short time ago, in the grand scheme of things, there was a part of him that felt as if and Mycroft had been together for years, they knew each other so well, and this reminder served to make him smile. Yes, if he'd been looking for the perfect setting in which to propose… this was it.

"I remember that, in addition to the company, you quite liked our dining arrangements that night. I simply thought you might prefer a slightly more private setting tonight, as it has been some time since we have been able to be alone together."

"You're right about that. I've missed you, Mycroft. Exchanging text messages and calls is not the same as having you around." The politician looked a little sad at this, so Greg hurried to clarify, lest he ruin the mood. "I love that you find time for me in your busy schedule, but knowing that the time we do get to share is occasionally cut short by my needing to go back to my own flat, or you back to yours… Well, I think we need a change, you and I."

Instead of looking nervous, as Greg had half-expected he would at this, Mycroft nodded and reached across the table to take his hand, lips curved softly upward.

"I feel the same way, my dear. In fact, I was planning to address that tonight." Both men reached for their pockets at the same time with their free hands, and then stopped when they saw what the other was doing, eyes going wide.

"Are you… planning to propose?" Greg couldn't believe it. He'd been prepared to lay out all the reasons it would be logical for the two of them to get married—he knew Mycroft would be more likely to agree if it seemed like a smart thing to do—but it had never occurred to him that the other man might be sentimental enough to come up with the idea of proposing on his own.

Mycroft wasn't quite as surprised, but it was still quite the revelation, realizing that Greg had no intentions of waiting for him to make that particular move. It had clearly been on his lover's mind, as indicated by his reaction to Sherlock's comments earlier, but Mycroft hadn't been willing to breach his privacy by looking deeper. How long had he been thinking about binding them together legally?

"I am, yes. But it would seem as if you would prefer to have the honors." Hovering on Mycroft's lips was the tiny smile that came from the genuine, shy side of him, rather than the politician's grin, and Greg couldn't resist walking around the table and kissing him before going down on one knee.

"Mycroft Holmes. It goes without saying that you are extraordinary. But what I see in you isn't the man who holds the world in the palm of his hand daily without breaking a sweat—not just that, at least. I think that, for a goldfish, I have a pretty good idea of who you are; I'm no genius, but even I can see how dedicated you are when you want something, how you will always care for others before you even think about yourself, how you're the most honest person I know when you aren't juggling secrets that could sink a thousand ships simultaneously. The fact that you're sexy as hell is, to me, just another perk.

"I don't love you for your money, or your power, or even how good you look in your suits that take forever to get off. I love you, because you never give up on the people you love, never close your eyes before you can ensure that the lives of all the people who depend on you, whether they know it or not, are safe and secure for another night. And those people may never acknowledge what you do for them, but I would very much like to spend the rest of my life doing so, if you'd do me the honor of becoming my husband."

Unable to help smiling, Mycroft slid gracefully to his own knees, drawing Greg in for a kiss even as the cop slipped the ring on his finger.

"It is, I think, my turn, as I too have a ring to offer you." Chuckling, Greg nodded, and waited, eyes sparkling with joy.

"Gregory Lestrade, I love you. You are everything I never knew I was looking for until I found you, and it would please me immensely if I never had to let go." If either of them was surprised by the fact that Greg's proposal had been far wordier and more drawn out than Mycroft's in some kind of strange role reversal, neither commented. That may, of course, have been because Greg had decided somewhere in the middle of the much hotter kiss they started that the plush carpet would be comfortable enough to roll around on, and Mycroft had seconded the motion without thought or hesitation.

Mycroft was still smiling hours later, when he found himself, having been thoroughly shagged on the floor and having returned the favor in the shower, lying in bed, sharing a cigarette with his extremely giddy DI. The nicotine tasted like a celebration of the future they were going to share together, and the way they kept finding themselves twined together, as if they couldn't get enough of each other, only emphasized how lucky he was, to be living that moment with the man who he knew to be the other half of his heart.

Almost as if reading his mind, Greg tangled his fingers with the politician's, taking a puff of the cigarette before smiling at the ceiling in utter contentment.

It might have seemed strange to anyone else, but neither of them felt the need to speak. Just like the night Mycroft had taken Greg to the opera—something they'd thankfully managed to avoid a repeat of as the PM had finally decided that it was time to quit sneaking around and just be honest about his feelings and let the public learn to deal with it—they understood each other perfectly, and knew they were already communicating everything they might have needed said.

It would, Mycroft suspected, set a precedent for the future. This speechless understanding, it would be the thing that carried them through obstacles that would have felled other couples, who let silly things get in the way of happiness. They understood each other, and he didn't require a verbal reaffirmation to know that, in all the days to come, they would face whatever came their way, together.


	17. Forever

**A/N: Hello, my darlings! Well, we're finally at a wrap for this story, and since I'm at a tie vote for what I should do next, I'm going to leave the voting open for a bit! So hopefully, you're getting to enjoy lots of good news today. Anyway, do let me know what you think about this chapter, and if you've any thoughts on which project I should attempt next, I'm still accepting those, too. I'm very likely to go with whatever's voted on next, so there's that. Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have, and I'll see you next story!**

**~Wings**

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Sherlock had paced the same eleven steps in 221B's living room so many times he might have been surprised not to have fallen through the floor, were it not for the fact that his environment had quit registering at all. He was utterly consumed by his thoughts, by the ring that seemed to be searing right through the cloth of his trousers and setting his skin alight. He felt jumpy and uncomfortable, but he couldn't seem to find a way to calm himself. Instead of going into his mind palace, he'd chosen to try to stay present enough to hear when John got home, so his thoughts were whirling chaos, and he was unable to settle.

It had seemed like a simple enough idea, when he'd proposed it to Lestrade and his brother. Sure, he'd been nervous even then, absolutely convinced that everything was going to go sideways and John was going to completely hate the idea of being tied to him, but whatever bit of hope had gotten him to the jeweler's to purchase the cursed object in his pocket had fled him entirely, and left him in shambles.

Just when he'd nearly convinced himself to take it back and forget the whole thing, he heard the downstairs door slam, and he froze completely, wondering if his heart might oblige him by stopping altogether before he managed to embarrass himself completely. There was _no way on earth_ John would want to marry him, not this soon, if ever. What had he been thinking?

Predictably, the voice that warned him when he was doing something idiotic—he didn't know what it sounded like to other people, but his voice sounded quite a lot like Mycroft—decided to chime in then. _You were thinking that you're Sherlock Holmes, and the socially appropriate progression of a relationship doesn't apply to you. Well, you like adrenaline, and now, you've got plenty of it. It's time to see what you can do with it._ The voice was gone by the time John reached the top step, but Sherlock was no calmer.

Distressed, he dashed for the kitchen and began pulling things for tea out, and when John entered the flat, he found himself facing chaos. There was a fond smile on his face nonetheless when he entered the kitchen and began following along in the wake of his whirlwind of a lover, cleaning tea leaves off the counter from the bag Sherlock had managed to puncture and sweeping sugar, which was quickly getting everywhere, into the trash.

Only a moment later Sherlock was practically vibrating at his side, holding a cup of tea that didn't look remotely drinkable. A little concerned now, as Sherlock wasn't normally _that_ bad in the kitchen despite his loathing for the practical, homey tasks John so enjoyed, he accepted the mug and took a very small sip, not wanting to hurt Sherlock's feelings. Then he grabbed the obviously stressed consulting detective's hand and tugged him out to the sofa, and then into a seat.

Sherlock didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, and they were fidgeting as John set his tea aside, so he took them between his and tried to confer some sense of calm on the younger man.

"What's the matter, Sherlock? You're more frantic than a rabbit in a pasture full of wolves, and I don't think I've ever seen you this bad, even during the case with the Hound." Not sure what to do to help the younger man, John rested a hand on his knee, trying to impart some sense of comfort. While physical contact occasionally helped to calm patients who got themselves into that state, it only seemed to make Sherlock worse. He jumped like he'd been burned at the casual contact, and John hastily retreated, wondering if it had something to do with their relationship, and the physical turn it had taken lately. Had he pushed Sherlock too far?

Silently preparing himself for what he was certain was going to be Sherlock trying to figure out how to break up with him while keeping him around for his help with the Work, John sat back and simply watched Sherlock, wanting to absorb everything he could in case he couldn't manage to accept that and stick around. To watch him retreat behind his walls and give up on them now that he knew he was in love… it might prove unendurable.

But he knew he would try anyway. To John, there was no one and nothing in the world more important than the mad consulting detective he'd taken up with, and even if Sherlock no longer wanted him, something he'd secretly feared was a true possibility for a while considering Sherlock's habit of losing interest in things once he'd figured them out, he knew he would try to stick around, be a part of his life in whatever capacity he would accept.

Just when John was resolving himself for the blow he knew he'd have to pretend to be okay with, Sherlock realized his massive intellect was going to be no help to him whatsoever. He was so caught up in what he was feeling that he didn't even notice the resignation on John's face, which was fortunate.

He'd been hoping for some sort of inspiration, to figure out a way to gauge whether or not John would even be _interested_ in his proposal, and if by some miracle the answer had proven to be yes, he'd wanted… so many things. The right words, the right moment, the right scene.

But it occurred to him now that, perhaps, there was no right moment. What was life, after all, but a series of moments, intertwined and branching off in curious ways, during which destinies were made and remade with a turn of the head or a thoughtless word? Maybe there was no right or wrong way, and maybe, instead of overthinking, he should trust his feelings, and simply follow where they lead.

So, instead of the great speech John might have been expecting, had he even realized what was about to happen, what came out of Sherlock's mouth was "fuck it. I love you. Be mine?" And somehow the ring was out of his pocket and in his hand and open before he could consciously register anything.

And John was just staring at him, his expression so stunned that even Sherlock couldn't read it.

Desperate, now, to stop whatever might come out of the other man's mouth, for fear that it wouldn't be what he needed to hear, Sherlock practically flung himself at John, pressed their mouths together, and kissed him. There was no finesse to it, just simple passion and desperation, and it was an incredible relief when John began kissing him back. _At least he still wants me, even if he can't agree to this._ The ring box fell to the floor, ignored for the moment, as Sherlock tried to show John everything he was feeling.

The army doctor, who'd seen friends blown apart and examined corpses that made even seasoned cops ill without so much as flinching, was in shock. It was, on the whole, the last thing he'd been expecting, and with Sherlock's lips on his he always found it incredibly hard to concentrate, even without the added distraction of a mind that had been blown wide open.

They were halfway toward forgetting everything but each other when John finally came to his senses. Hands on Sherlock's shoulders, he gently pushed him back, trying to read his expression. Instead of the panic that had prompted the kiss, pain at John's perceived rejection flared bright and strong in his eyes for a moment. Not able to let him think for even a moment that he wasn't wanted, the doctor pulled him close again for another kiss, slower this time and sweeter, designed to gentle him.

Still, when they finally pulled away, Sherlock was shaking lightly, and John knew he had to make his next words count, or risk losing the absolute trust of the man he loved.

"I love you too," he said quietly, grabbing Sherlock's hands when he seemed ready to spring up and run away. "And I am yours. Today, tomorrow, forever if that's how long you want me. You don't need to propose to me to have that certainty. There's been no one for me _but_ you since the day we met, and if you don't know that, you need to get your head checked.

"I didn't expect this from you, though, so you'll have to forgive my reaction. I know how you feel about the institution of marriage, and I know you're always careful about not wanting to put me in undue danger, so this is altogether something of a curveball for me.

"That said, I can't think of any reason that I _wouldn't_ want to marry you. I know who you are, Sherlock, and there's not a doubt in my mind that you will make me the happiest man alive. I might be surprised that you want this, but there's not a doubt in my mind that I do." John couldn't help smiling at the awe on Sherlock's face. He was really surprised by anything, but he was clearly surprised by this.

"There's always something," Sherlock murmured almost reverently before his shaking hands reclaimed the ring box and quickly extracted the ring, slipping it on John's finger after two fumbled and failed attempts.

Both of them were smiling more brightly than the sun just then, and they were so absorbed in each other that they didn't hear the knocking on the door for a solid minute. The world could have exploded around them and they probably wouldn't have noticed, caught up in the moment that, whether it had started that way or not, had turned out to be as close to perfect as the world could handle.

Despite the electricity shimmering in his blood, the noise did eventually get through the pounding in Sherlock's ears. Instead of being irritated at the interruption, he got gracefully to his feet and nearly floated across the room to answer. John was still joyfully examining the band which now adorned his left hand, a smooth, seamless twist of silver and gold filed flat so it wouldn't get in his way at work. It was the perfect ring to symbolize what they were together, even if he hadn't noticed the engraving on the inside, which had simply read "Aeternum," in Sherlock's fanciest handwriting. He knew what it meant, thanks to picking up enough Latin in school, without needing to ask. _Forever_. Yes, it was right.

And when Sherlock opened the door to find Mycroft and Lestrade in the doorway, both already smiling as though they had known what was going on inside 221B without needing visual confirmation—which was, of course, true thanks to Mycroft's mind—and had only been waiting for the right time to enter.

In an quick motion that surprised every single person, Sherlock barely waited until they were inside before wrapping his arms tight around his brother, hugging him with every bit of enthusiasm Mycroft could remember from when they were younger, and had only each other. Instinctively, as though all those years had fallen away now and left them simply as brothers and best friends once again, Mycroft hugged him tightly back, and John and Greg shared beaming smiles across the room.

There would, of course, be ups and downs. There would be periods of time during which either Mycroft or Greg worked too often, times when cases meant no sleep and crazy chases through London for Sherlock and John, and times when all of them, at some point or another, had a near-death experience due to the lives they lead, but through it all, they all remained bonded, facing down the cycles of life and death and fear and joy and longing and hope and all the things that came in between, bound together by the bonds of friendship and brotherhood, and those little circles of metal that symbolized hope and love that would ensure none of them was ever, ever alone again.

Greg and John still routinely got together for a pint and sympathy over their stubborn husbands, swapping stories and advice and secretly enjoying that there was someone else in the world who knew what it was like to be on such a crazy, beautiful ride. When their pub nights happened, instead of spending the night staring at the wall and moaning that he was bored, Sherlock would sometimes call Mycroft, or the politician, setting aside the paperwork that wasn't urgent enough to merit immediate concern, would send his little brother a text, and they would spend the evening together, sometimes speaking but more often than not simply enjoying each other's company.

Occasionally, they even went back to the cabin where they'd started bonding again, dragging their good humored men with them and enjoying good liquor and good company, often indulging until dawn had kissed the smudged horizon and painted it hazy gold.

And when Mycroft and Greg finally retired to the country years later, after Mycroft finished turning the reins over to Anthea, they purchased a little cottage next to John and Sherlock's bee farm, and the four of them all lived happily ever after. Or as close to that as they could manage, since they all kept coming out of retirement to consult on cases, another passion that would stick with them for their little fragment of forever.


End file.
